


In His Stead

by IceAngel



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Action, Angst, F/M, Faramir Whump, Fellowship of the Ring, Friendship, Legolas Whump, Other, War of the Ring, Written over ten years, comradery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 120,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceAngel/pseuds/IceAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"<br/>Chapters posted twice weekly.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imladris

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 1 - Imladris**

The gentle sunlight faded quickly as Faramir passed through the archway into one of the inner chambers of Rivendell. The room had no window, and he was forced to wait a moment before his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Three days it had been since he had come to Imladris and finally solved the first of the puzzling words that had come to him months before in a dream. Yet even here the dream haunted him still, and little sleep he had found in the last homely house.

Faramir's step was cautious as he moved into the darkened room, his eyes taking in everything. Dusty bookshelves lined the walls on his left, and hung on the wall to his right was a large, richly coloured painting.

It was a library. Faramir was pleasantly surprised by his discovery. He could have spent days searching the halls and chambers of Rivendell for this very place, and he had found it without even looking.

He looked to the books on his left, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer. There were old volumes of bound leather, and also several more recent publications. He reached up to lift down one of these when a sudden sound from behind stayed his hand.

He reached instinctively for his sword. His hand met nothing but air and he remembered the outlaw of weapons in Imladris. When first he had come there Faramir had been pleased by the law that declared absolute peace, but now he was not so sure.

He turned cautiously, unsure what to expect. At first he could see nothing, the shadows at the end of the hall being too dark. After another moment something shifted in the darkness and the shape of a figure could be seen.

Faramir's breath caught in his throat. Had the figure been watching him the entire time? He could only just see the man's eyes watching him intensely from beneath a dark hood.

"Goodmorrow," Faramir began haltingly, "I did not see you there."

The man said nothing at first. And Faramir almost thought he would not respond. But after a moment the grey eyes met his once more.

"You are a ranger?" The voice was low and was perhaps more refined than Faramir had expected.

"I..." Faramir was startled for a moment until he realised he was still wearing his cloak. It was thinner than most cloaks worn by men of Gondor and it was its green and brown hues were designed to blend into the trees.

He smiled slightly as he studied the man's own clothing in the dim light. "I see I am not the only one who uses the trees as his shield."

The man seemed to smile at the image, and shifted slightly in his chair. "Do you come from Gondor, or Minas Tirith itself?"

Faramir found himself annoyed at the tone of command in the other's voice. What right did a ranger of the North have to question him? He avoided the question easily.

"I see you know something of the lay of the land? Tell me, Ranger, from whence come you?"

The man seemed to shrug slightly, shifting the book he held in his lap. "I am Strider, Ranger of the North. All lands are my home."

Faramir pressed his lips together in a grim smile. He had expected no less of this man. A real name had been too much to hope for.

"I am Faramir, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien," he said, deciding to speak plainly and lead by example.

The man's stare hardened at the words, and Faramir found himself suddenly uncomfortable under the other's scrutiny.

"And what is Denethor's son doing so far from his city?"

Faramir did not react, though he was surprised the other knew of his lineage. "Have you travelled in the south lands?" he asked, finding himself intrigued by the mysterious stranger's depth of knowledge.

"Many lands have been my home, and I have studied long in Imladris." Then the man smiled as if he knew something Faramir did not. "If you wished to visit the larger library in Rivendell, I would show you."

Faramir smiled slightly despite himself. The man had found out his passion and given him an offer he would not refuse. Now, he realised, he would be in the man's debt. Faramir would think twice before engaging in another battle of wills with this man, Strider. He seemed to casually observe nothing, while in truth he took in each minute detail for future use.

Strider laid the book he had been reading face down on the arm of his chair and Faramir, though he tried, could not make out the title. As they moved together towards the doorway Faramir happened to glance up at the painting to his left. It was a familiar subject to him, as it was to all those who dwelt in the city founded by the sons of Elendil. It was a depiction of the last stand of Isildur against Sauron. Yet he thought that he had never seen in such a light before. In Gondor it was an image of loyalty and courage. Though as he gazed at it in the small dust-filled room he felt a great sadness, and saw more clearly the great weakness men had for greed and corruption.

Strider had followed his gaze, and as Faramir turned back to him he saw that a great shadow had fallen upon his companion, and that his face was drawn and lined.

The night was warm and Faramir lay beneath thin sheets. His window opened above the Bruinen but the upward draft from the river did nothing to cool the chamber. He turned over, the material clinging to his body, and looked outwards where the stars shone above Rivendell. It was long ere sleep came to him, for he did not relish the thought of experiencing the dream that had torn him away from his home. Yet when sleep did come, the dream of the pale light in the west did not. Instead he saw a man with a star on his brow, and a broken sword being forged anew. His sleep-numbed mind told him that if the King of men were to be found anywhere in middle earth, it would be in the house of Elrond.

Faramir woke with a feeling of peace for the first time in many mornings. The sun had already risen high in the sky as he dressed himself hurriedly, remembering that Elrond had called the council for early that very morning.

Elves glanced sternly at him as he hurried along the balconies, glancing every few moments at the position of the sun. He slowed his pace, looking down at his boot that he had carelessly forgotten to lace. He sighed in frustration. It would have to wait. Distracted, he did not see the group of Elves who had moved out onto the path til he had walked into them.

There was a grunt, and Faramir looked up, cringing, to see the Elf he had knocked to the ground. It was unlike him to cause such accidents. Being a Ranger, his skills for moving swifly and silently had always helped him to avoid such incidents when among other men. Yet Elves possessed such heightened skills as to make him feel heavy and ungraceful.

"Forgive me," he said quickly, offering the fallen Elf a hand by which to right himself. But the Elf declined, recovering himself without his aid. He rose to Faramir's height, fixing the Ranger with what seemed to be a scornful gaze. The Elf was unlike those of Elrond's house, as his hair was blond and his cloak pale green. The Elf said something to his companions in Sindarin. Faramir's learning of the language was not sufficient enough to catch the quickly spoken words, but he presumed them to have spoken of himself for the other Elves laughed lightly and flashed him amused glances.

Faramir had not the time to follow up on the insult, for he knew himself to be already late for the council.

He was seated beside a Dwarf. This would not have bothered him were it not for the Elf on his other side. It was ~that~ Elf, the one he had colided with before the council, and it seemed to him that being seated next to the stout bearded creature on his left lowered him even more in the eyes of the tall Elf.

"Gimli, son of Gloin," the Dwarf announced, leaning over and grasping Faramir's hand in a crushing grip.

"Faramir of Gondor," he replied, trying hard not to wince as the Dwarf released his bruised fingers. He could feel the Elf's eyes upon his once more, and clenched his jaw in frustration. What a position to be thrown into! "I am not sure if Elrond invited me to this council only to sit between yourselves and the Elves." he said to Gimli, loud enough for the Elf to overhear.

The Dwarf laughed heartily, "You may be right! Elrond is half an Elf himself, you know? Cunning folk they are. Dangerous. Never trust an Elf." Faramir smiled, he had expected the Dwarf to feel that way.

"But he is also half man," Gimli went on, "so there must be some sense in him."

Faramir smiled at the complement, and was glad that the Dwarf seemed to harbour no such ill feeling towards the race of men as he did to the Elves.

"And here is the great Elf himself!"

Faramir looked up to see Elrond's arrival. The dark-haired Elf seemed showed his age more clearly than when Faramir had first come to Rivendell. For although the skin of Elrond's face was unmarked by his long years his eyes were dark with strain and worry.  
"The council will take place now all have come, and you all shall learn the answers to your riddles..."


	2. Speak friend and enter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and the Fellowship enter Moria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. _Please note that during chapters 2-14, Gandalf was snatched from the Fellowship by Saruman, leaving only his sword and broken staff behind._ I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - and happy reading.

**Chapter 15 (see note above) - Speak friend and enter**

The towering cliffs of Moria frowned down upon the company, shadows streaking their grim and silent faces. Two great trees, twisted and gnarled, crept a long way up the wall. Before they had reached the sheer cliff, the trees had looked little more than average size, but standing under then now was like looking up at the size of a dragon.

Gimli had wandered around at first, grumbling about his sodden boots and looking warily at the lake, dim and stagnant.

"A strange thing indeed, Aragorn," Faramir said in reference to the dark water, "no reflections, not even the sunset mirrors on the water."

"I do not like it," Gimli growled, "the Sirannon was a fine river in its time, it grieves me to see it this way. I wonder who or what dammed the river."

"I don't think I want to know," Pippin said with a shiver, "the lake . . . it frightens me."

"The lake is less frightening than the sound of the wind," Merry added and everyone fell silent to listen. Sure enough the wind was howling over the rumbling of the clouds above, it seemed as though they were in for another rainstorm.

"Cursed weather!" Gimli muttered angrily, "and the howling of the wind, Merry is right, it is almost too much to bear!"

Aragorn's head turned to look at the Dwarf but the Ranger did not speak, he seemed to be listening. "It is not the wind," he said slowly, "it is . . ."

"Wolves!" Legolas finished, "although they are quite far away."

"Not far enough away for my liking!" Gimli growled, hefting his axe and feeling its comforting weight.

"We must find the door before they get too close for comfort. We do not want to be trapped between the wolves and the wall."

Aragorn and Faramir searched the wall with their hands and swords, trying to find any crack or sign of the door. Gimli paced slowly, tapping the wall every so often with his axe. He was sure that by finding the place where the wall sounded hollow, the door would be revealed.

The Dwarf was slightly worried about his elven companion. Hardly a word had Legolas spoken all that night and now the Elf stood away from them, leaning against the cold stone of the wall, as if listening.

Gimli went over to him. "Does the stone speak or do you simply wish to avoid our company?" The comment was intended to get a rise out of the Elf but Legolas just looked up slowly as if he had not hardly heard Gimli speak. His eyes were distant and slightly glazed over.

"Does your injury still trouble you?" Gimli asked in a low voice, touched with concern.

Legolas didn't focus on him as he spoke, "I should ask you the same. Has Aragorn taken a look at your leg?"

"You're changing the subject," Gimli said angrily, "Here, let me take a look at your shoulder."

Legolas could have stopped Gimli pulling back his cloak if he had tried, but the Elf only made a mild protest, telling Gimli in a distant voice that there was nothing really wrong with him.

"I'll be the judge of that." Gimli made Legolas undo the top few buttons on his shirt and pull it to the side, revealing his right shoulder. Gimli could see nothing to alarm him, only a long white scar and some dark bruising that marred the skin and thanks to the Elf's unnatural healing, that too should disappear in a few days.

Gimli frowned. In a way he had hoped it had been the injury that troubled his friend. A scratch on the surface was preferable to the deep scaring beneath. Gimli was not clueless, and in his heart he knew what troubled the Elf.

"Rest it up," he said, pushing Legolas' shirt back into place, "it wouldn't do to strain it before it is fully healed." Gimli took a quick intake of breath, not quite sure how the Elf would react to his next words. "You will not be alone this time, you know," he said gruffly. It was all very well to comfort the hobbits who were small, but giving reassurance to someone more that a foot taller, let alone an Elf whose every step was perfect, that was almost laughable. Gimli was glad to see Legolas' eyes finally focus on him. "Aragorn will see us through the mines, all right." 

But the Dwarf had worried for nothing, for almost at once Legolas straightened up and smiled, "I do believe you are blushing, Master Dwarf."

"On the contrary, I do assure you. I am simply red with rage at your downright rudeness all through this night."

There was a small commotion back near the walls as the Hobbits cried out in delight. Gimli and Legolas quickly made their way back over to the main group.

"Ah, how did you do it, Aragorn?" Legolas' voice was filled with awe as he gazed at the faint silvery lines that had somehow appeared upon the vertical cliff face. They shone brightly in the moonlight and grew stronger so that they could make out a pattern.

"In truth, it is a mystery. Faramir and I were trying to find an opening and one of us must have touched a place that revealed the writing."

"The emblems of Durin!" Gimli cried, as he recognised an anvil and a hammer outlined by the silver lines.

"And the tree of the high elves!" said Legolas.

"What do the letters say?" Sam asked, and it took Aragorn and Legolas a moment to decipher the silver writing.

"Ennyn Durin Atan Moria: pedo mellon a minno," Frodo read the larger letters aloud and Gimli noted the surprise on Legolas' face that the Hobbit's Elvish pronunciation was so good.

Faramir also looked at the Hobbit with admiration. Gimli smiled as he was sure he knew exactly what was passing through his curious friend's head. Gimli did admit it was a pleasant language and especially useful for the songs Legolas continually annoyed him with, but perhaps Elvish had a greater attraction to the ears of men.

"The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend and enter. The words are written in the language spoken by the Elves in Western Middle earth more than an age ago," Legolas told them.

"But what does it mean?" Merry asked, slightly disgruntled that although they had found one answer, it just provided another puzzle.

"That is plain enough," Gimli said, proud of his common sense that neither man, Elf or Hobbit seemed to possess, "If you are a friend, speak the password and the doors will open. Simple . . . if we knew the word . . . Aragorn?"

Everyone looked hopefully at Aragorn. The man didn't react.

"You do know the word! Surely you have not brought us here with no knowledge of how to enter?" Gimli's voice sounded harsher than he meant it to and all the Hobbits started looking desperate.

Legolas quickly put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "You said, Aragorn, that you had passed through the mines before."

"My memory of that journey is dark and little do I remember of password or door."

"What are we to do?" Sam asked angrily, "Just sit here till the wolves eat us?" Behind Sam's anger was the tearful realisation that Bill the pony would not be able to follow them through the mines.

"We have a little time at least," Aragorn said. "Merry, Pippin, could you help Frodo and Sam to sort the packs and keep only bare essentials - food supplies. Take Bill's load and divide it among us and try not to get everything wet. You will have to move further up the path to where the bank is dry."

Sam lapsed into quiet tears and went over to hug his favourite pony. Gimli watched as Faramir had a quiet talk with Sam while Legolas spoke a few words to the pony, apparently giving it advice.

The man and the Elf lifted the four Hobbits over the large dead tree that blocked the path, onto the drier shore.

Gimli did not like leaving the Hobbits on the other side of the tree. If the wolves surprised them with an attack, the only way around the lake was through the place the Hobbits now sat. He doubted Faramir and Legolas could get all the Hobbits and baggage back over the barrier in time but did not like to doubt Aragorn's judgement.

They returned to the wall and Aragorn and Legolas proceeded in trying many different words and phrases that they hoped would serve as a password. Nothing worked. Eventually Legolas gave up and wandered back over to where Gimli was standing.

"Perhaps we should help the Hobbits, "Gimli suggested."

"It was enough trouble getting you over the tree the first time," Legolas smiled. "I refuse to do it again." Gimli noted that the Elf's mood had improved, and he put this down to their failure to enter the mines. He was sure Legolas would prefer to face a host of wolves than enter Moria.

Legolas suddenly looked up towards the horizon, concentration wiping away his smile.

"What is it?" Gimli whispered. But he did not have to wait long. A great howl split the air and dark shapes appeared on the horizon.

"The wolves!" Gimli yelled and heard Aragorn draw his sword. Legolas was already pulling Pippin over the dead tree and heaving the newly sorted baggage Sam passed up to him. Gimli glanced quickly over his shoulder and was surprised to see Faramir hadn't moved - he was still staring up at the letters on the wall.

"Faramir! Come and help us!" Gimli yelled in frustration and ran back to the head of the cliff. "What are you doing?" He tugged on the man's arm. "The wolves are coming down the valley!" Faramir did not respond. His brow was creased and he was deep in anxious thought.

Gimli let out a growl of frustration and turned back to the path. Aragorn was dragging much of the baggage towards him, Merry and Pippin on his heals. Gimli grabbed the remaining pack and swung it onto his shoulder, taking Sam by the arm and puling him along too despite his protests.

He dumped the bag by the cliff and turned back to help Legolas and Frodo. The Elf was in the process of lifting Frodo over the tree and Gimli moved forwards. Suddenly, he felt a wave of freezing water wash over his feet and he looked down to sea the lake was bubbling, no longer peaceful and stagnant.

Frodo's cry reached his ears and he looked up just in time to see the water close to his friends explode into the air and some kind of creature reach out for the Hobbit. The many-tentacled creature seemed to be guided by an unknown force for it seemed to want Frodo alone. The tentacle closed around Hobbit's legs, dragging him towards the water. Legolas was thrown backwards as another of the creature's arms struck out at any resistance.

Gimli rushed forwards and dragged the Elf to his feet. They looked up together to see the Wolves had almost reached the natural barrier and would be on the company in seconds. Aragorn was quick to react and the leading wolves were felled by perfectly aimed arrows before they got within metres of the tree. Gimli heard Adúril being unsheathed and Aragorn went calmly forwards to meet the enemy.

As Aragorn somehow managed to hold off the wolves by himself, Gimli and Legolas waded out into the horrible water and struck out at the creature holding Frodo.

Legolas continued to fire at close range, his arrows piercing the tentacles. Gimli was amazed at their accuracy - he had not yet seen the Elf in battle. The Dwarf found it hard to get close enough to get a clear swing at the creature for it was constantly moving, and with each assault of one of the Elf's arrows, it reared and bucked, still not letting go of Frodo.

The creature knew it was being attacked and it struck out at the two friends, catching Gimli's already sore leg and sending him crashing into the water. The pain was terrible and for a moment Gimli did not think he could stand again, but Frodo's frightened cries gave him the strength to try and rise. He heard Legolas fire two more arrows and heard the creature's howl of pain. The Elf's hand closed around his arm and began to haul him back to his feet.

Gimli wasn't sure what happened next, there was a swirl of water and a cry close to him as he was thrown back into the black water, trying hard not to swallow any. The grip on his arm had gone and Gimli rose to his knees, spluttering his friend's name.

One of the giant tentacles had whipped out of the water, aimed at himself and Legolas, and while the Elf had been trying to help him up, it had attacked.

Gimli struggled back to the shore, dragging his injured leg behind him and feeling great relief that he had not been standing at the time. Legolas had been thrown, or carried back and smashed into the cliff face, and now he was trapped between the rock and the creature's arm that held him there. Gimli reached his friend's side and seeing the crushing strength that held the Elf against the wall, he swung his axe downwards and cut deeply into the creature's flesh.

A screech of pain an anger came from the water, and the thing withdrew it's arm. Gimli caught the Elf before he fell to the ground.

"Thank you, nin mellon," Legolas panted, holding his crushed ribs. Gimli reached forwards and picked up the Elf's bow from the muddy ground.

"Mellon." 

Gimli's head turned at once to the sound of Faramir's voice, and saw a crack split the door to the mines. A great creaking, groaning sound was heard and the door swung open.

Faramir was at his side in a second, his bow raised and aimed at the creature's body.

Legolas had ceased firing as the doors swung open, but now he returned to the attack. "Shoot for the centre of the body!"

Faramir obeyed the Elf's command and Gimli realised that he could be of no use here. He ran to help Aragorn.

The man and the Hobbits were surrounded by a pile of dead wolves, each with either arrow wounds or deep sword marks in their flesh. Pippin and Merry had been working together and it seemed to be working quite effectively for neither were injured.

Sam was not even noticing the battle with the wolves and he was trying desperately to stab the thing which held his master. Tears were running down his face and Gimli noticed there was no sign of Bill.

Gimli stepped up to Aragorn's side and raised his axe. "The door is opening," he said quickly and was pleased to see Aragorn's worried face turn upon him a look of sheer wonder and disbelief.

"Get inside!" Aragorn shouted to the Hobbits and Merry and Pippin turned at once.

"What about Mr Frodo?" As if in answer to Sam's call, one of the Elf's arrows pieced the centre of the creature's body and letting out a cry of pain, it dropped the Hobbit to fall from a great height.

Faramir rushed forwards to catch the Hobbit bodily in his arms. Stumbling half into the water with the weight.

The all fled together towards the entrance with the wolves and the creature close behind. Gimli tumbled through the door, colliding with the other bodies that had leaped out of the way of the reaching arms. There was a tremendous crunching sound and they were plunged into silent darkness.


	3. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark of Moria...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 16 (see note above) - Patience**

A small hand reached for the chain around his neck. "Thank the stars it is not lost!"

As if he were still in a dream, Frodo felt himself jerk upright, "Keep back! Get away from me! it's mine!" The voice was his own, this surprised him for he had never heard himself speak so harshly and with so much anger. His fingers closed around the cool metal, the ring... the ring...

A wave of cold swept over him and he suddenly felt freezing and alone in the blinding darkness. As he began to remember where he was, he became painfully aware of the silence around him as whoever had tried to touch the ring had drawn back in shock at his reaction.

Frodo shivered and wished someone would take away the terrible darkness, "I'm sorry... so sorry... I don't understand... "

"It's alright, Mr Frodo, it's just me," Sam's comforting voice and his warm hand holding his in the dark was almost too good to be true. "You kept it safe, and you're safe now too."

"But . . . what was that thing, or were there many of them? And where is everyone?"

"We are all here, Frodo." Strider's strong voice was a great comfort to Frodo who had truly believed all but Sam and himself had not made it. "But I do not know what the creature may be. Doubtless it was the cause of the damming of the river. It was said that beneath Moria, a terror dwelt and now someone or something has woken it, perhaps we will find more trouble ahead than we guessed."

There was a harsh whisper that Frodo suspected to be Sam telling Aragorn not to be so disheartening when he was only just recovering.

"Poor Mr Frodo," Sam said, "your legs must be sorely bruised after that horrid creature got a hold of you. I did my best, sir, but poor old Bill, I had to choose, Mr Frodo, I had to come with you. And all the wolves and the snakes, really Strider, I don't know why he couldn't have come along with us. After all he'd been through."

"I don't think Bill would have followed you, Sam, even if you had dragged him." Aragorn's voice seemed strange to Frodo, it was a mixture of regret and sadness.

"Bill would have followed me into a dragon's den if I led him. But there I go again, Bill is gone and there's nothing that can be done about it now. I just hope he doesn't end up in a wolf's belly!"

"I am truly sorry Sam," from Aragorn's voice Frodo could tell he meant it. "But we must look to the present. Is anyone hurt?"

There were some grumbles, that Frodo suspected came from Gimli, and a shuffle of feet. Frodo realised he was lying on a broad, shallow step and the others were gathered around him.

"Pippin? Merry? Are you both well?" Aragorn had fought alongside them but with the violence of the wolves' attack, he had not seen whether either had been injured.

Frodo held his breath for a moment, hoping neither of his young cousins had been hurt.

"Pippin got a bad cut on his leg and we're both covered in wolf blood but we will live." Frodo heard Aragorn's quiet sigh, the Ranger would never forgive himself if the two Hobbit's had been badly hurt. Frodo was the same, for in his mind, he had dragged them along on the adventure, even if he knew quite well they would have come anyway.

"Gimli?"

"Like the Hobbits, I will live," the Dwarf assured him, "I am soaked to the bone and if ever I come across that creature again I will see that he pays for the damage he did to my leg!" Frodo realised he too was wet through. The creature's attack had been so violent that the water had erupted around him. He pulled the blanket that was wrapped around him tighter.

"I believe it will think again before attacking a Hobbit now it has had a taste of Faramir and Legolas' arrows," Aragorn smiled. "But can you walk, Gimli?"

"Gimli, son of Gloin, miss the opportunity to explore the halls of Durin because he got hit in the leg?" the Dwarf roared incredulously, "I think the wolves must have jolted your brain, Aragorn, for you to even ask such a question!"

"Alright, Alright," Aragorn laughed, "there is no need for that. I would still like a look at your leg, Gimli, son of Gloin, if you aren't too high and mighty to let a friend offer his help."

"How you are going to 'take a look' at anything in this darkness is a mystery to me but I will relent, if you can find a light."

"I can see a light," Pippin put in, his voice smaller than usual, "over by the door. It keeps moving and flashing."

"Of course!" Aragorn sounded excited although the others had no idea what he had discovered. "Faramir?"

The strange light began to move and as Faramir answered him from what seemed like a long way back, the light disappeared, "What is it Aragorn?"

"Gandalf's sword, Glamdring."

There was a shuffling sound and a collective gasp as Faramir took the sword from his back where he had carried it and unsheathed it. A pale glow radiated from the blade and Faramir's face was illuminated in the strange light.

"And we have light!" Merry said.

"But at what price?" Aragorn said grimly and they all turned to look at him. "Frodo," Aragorn said by a means of explanation and after a second the Hobbit understood. His heart, joyful at the discovery of light, fell dramatically as he drew Sting from its sheath.

Bright was its blade, though not as bright as Glamdring's. "Orcs," he said, "they are near."

There were a few muted cries of dismay from the Hobbits and a low curse from Gimli. Aragron, whose face could now be seen in the dim light, looked around him. "We must move from this place soon. If the Orcs are close we can perhaps find a place off the path to hide a while. We have a little time for I have seen Glandring glow brighter still. Faramir, I can see you are well, but tell me, how did you manage to open the doors?"

"It was not all my doing. Gimli and Legolas were the true finders of the answer. They just didn't see it."

"I found it hard to concentrate on riddles as I was trying to do battle with the wolves and the snakes, unlike some people." Gimli's words were scornful but they held no real malice. They all knew that if Faramir hadn't figured out the password things would have gone worse for them at the door.

"I deemed it wiser to find the answer before all else lest we be overwhelmed by the enemy. Gimli, however, seemed to have the battle well under control." Frodo had seen Gimli's fall and knew exactly why the Dwarf's face flushed red at Faramir's words.

"But in the end it was Gimli who really saved the day," Faramir said, not wishing to be on the wrong side of an angry Dwarf for more than a moment. "For if he had not saved Legolas from the creature, I would have never known the Elvish for friend." Frodo followed Faramir's eyes as he searched for Legolas to give him recognition.

Frodo hadn't even noticed the Elf's silence. In fact he now realised Legolas had been rather quiet all through that night. He was so used to Gimli's argument's with the Elf that when Gimli took up arguing with Faramir and Aragorn, nothing seemed amiss. Now his eyes travelled to where the Elf sat, slightly away from the rest, leaning against the wall.

"Legolas, forgive me, I quite forgot you were injured. How fare you?" Aragorn's tone was regretful and the now obvious silence of the Elf must have disturbing him as much as it did Frodo. Legolas raised his eyes to Aragorn's, and to Frodo they seemed black and dim. His pale face resumed its blank exterior as everyone looked at him.

"Thanks to Master Gimli I am quite alright." Frodo was surprised at the blankness in the usually musical voice and the abruptness of his words, but although everyone waited for Legolas to continue, the Elf obviously had no intention of doing so.

"But . . ." Gimli began, also ashamed he had not asked about the Elf. "Surely, your shoulder, and your back . . . You may be an Elf but not even you can walk away from an attack like that without a scar."

"My chest is bruised and the wound on my shoulder has reopened but other that that, I am quite intact." From his tone, that was the end of the discussion, but Frodo was still concerned.

Faramir helped Gimli bandage his leg amid the Dwarf's continuous spiel of threats to the creature that had shut the doors on them. While Aragorn insisted on looking at the Elf's shoulder, Frodo looked on inconspicuously as the man peeled away the bloody sleeve. It was not a pleasant sight.

Frodo knew well what it was like to have an injury on the shoulder where every movement becomes restricted and every action made more difficult. He felt again the burning pain as the Black Rider's knife cut into his own shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut at the recollection.

"And just as it was beginning to heal, too," Aragorn was saying grimly as he used a little of their precious water to clean the wound. "It is a great blow to all of us, without your bow we will . . "

"I am perfectly capable of using my bow," Legolas interrupted, more sharply than usual.

Frodo thought he probably should not be listening but he remained where he was, fear and guilt eating slowly away at him. He almost wished he had gone alone, then everyone would not be in peril as they were now. But on the another hand, his relief at having so many true companions could not be expressed through words. He could not have wished for kinder or braver companions, friends, to help him on the most dangerous task that he had ever imagined.

Aragorn's eyes were fixed on the Elf in a look of concerned frustration, "Think of how much worse you could make the injury if you aggravate it. Be wise, my friend, let it heal."

"If you think I would stand idly in battle, you are mistaken. While I can be of any use I will do anything I can to protect the company."

Aragorn sighed in frustration and turned back to the main group. Frodo quickly averted his gaze so neither of the two would know he had been listening.

"Frodo, if you are recovered we will move on. I'm sure we are all anxious to get the journey over as quickly as possible.

"How long will it take?" Merry asked, while tying a bandage around Pippin's leg.

"Four or five days at the least," Aragorn said, "but I have not walked this path for many years and I remember little. It may take longer for us to decide our course than walk it. But for now our way is clear, up the stairs and along the passage. I will go ahead with Glamdring to light our way."

Faramir passed Aragorn the mighty blade, happy to be relieved of its weight. He had carried it without use, strapped to his back, since their descent from Caradhras for he had his own lighter sword. Aragorn would have been hard-pressed to carry two such heavy weapons although he had offered to. Frodo got wearily to his feet and followed the others up the stairs and into the darkness of Moria.

\----

The dark room was shrouded in anger and power. They had escaped his grasp again, and this fool before him was still resisting. He looked with disgust at the body on the ground and even felt a twinge of pity, pity that the Wizard could not see the foolishness of his stubborn refusals to tell him anything.

There had been one time Saruman thought he had won, just after the last words of defiance the old man had spoken almost two nights before. He had felt a change in the mental barrier that withheld the information he needed to become all powerful. He had even seen their faces in his mind. The faces of Gandalf's fellowship that he believed could win out against the darkness.

He had seen the undersized creatures Gandalf seemed to have so much faith in pass through the wizard's mind one by one, cheerful, curly haired beings, one of which defied him by carrying 'it'. Saruman would see the smiles wiped from their faces and laugh as Gandalf saw his beloved Halflings fall into darkness.

The Dwarf and the Elf passed by together, Saruman knew of the strange friendship between them through his previous observances of their journey. He smiled at the thought of them passing through Moria, he knew the Dwarf would relish the opportunity to see the halls of Durin but he was surprised Thranduil's son had agreed to even pass the doors. If he had the chance, Saruman would take pleasure in reminding the young Elf about his experiences as they passed through the dark. He must be far removed from the King of Mirkwood, who now seemed only to care of his wealth, and who would avoid the company of a Dwarf at all costs. Saruman was also amused that Gimli, the son of one of the Dwarves Thranduil had imprisoned, could even stand to be in presence of the young prince. Saruman had a plan for these two if ever he held them at Isengard. Through their cooperation, Saruman had a chance of gaining the alliance of the Mirkwood Elves and perhaps even the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. If they refused to oblige him in this he would use their friendship with each other to destroy them.

The next face to pass was the shadow King of Gondor, the one upon which all Gandalf's hopes hung.

Saruman had seen something else in the man's face, although he tried hard not to believe he had seen it. He knew as he looked into those grey eyes that without a doubt this man had descended from the Kings of old. His mere presence at the head of an army would be enough to drive the hosts of Mordor back to their shadow. Power was what he saw and it made him angry. But Saruman knew his chance to prevent this Ranger's rise to power was now, now before he could claim his birthright. Now, while he was his most vulnerable.

When they are brought to me, Saruman thought, never doubting that he would see the fellowship brought to Isengard, I will make certain he will never become that which Gandalf has prophesied. Perhaps when he sees the lies the old man has fed him, he will join me, lead 'my' armies. And if not, Saruman smiled, I will give him to Sauron as a gift of my good will. Saruman laughed. The Dark Lord will never suspect my power grows ever mightier. Unlike he, I know that beneath Moria lies a treasure more valuable than all the mithril ever found.

While Gandalf's thoughts had flashed by, he had never seen the face of the Steward's son. It was strange that while the faces of Denethor and his elder son passed, as what he thought was an indication of what was to come, the vision went blank and Saruman was still yet to see young Faramir's face. Saruman's plans for the young man were similar ones he had for the Elf, though more important. If Saruman could influence Denethor's alliance through Faramir's allegiance and counsel to his father, he would gain control of Gondor. From what he had been told about Denethor's younger son, Faramir was wise and had a great knowledge of lore. Surely a man such as he would see the wisdom Saruman offered. Again and again Saruman had been surprised that others did not understand his intentions. With a ruler such as himself, Middle Earth would flourish and the rebels who bred discontent would be crushed. Who could ask for a greater accomplishment? But Gandalf had not understood him and if Faramir turned out to be as was he called by his father, 'a Wizard's pupil,' Saruman would use him instead as a hostage and hope, for his sake, that Denethor would be wise enough to agree to his demands.

Of late the fellowship had been careful, as if they knew someone was watching. They travelled at night when he could not watch and he had lost all sight them until he had heard they had passed through the gate of Durin.

Saruman worried that the ring, along with the company, might never escape the mines. The Orcs that dwelt in Moria were not under his control and would kill intruders without a thought. He suspected Sauron had sent many of his Uruk Hai into the mines, for what purpose, he knew not. The risk of losing the ring was great and Saruman was debating whether to send his own Orcs inside to make sure his ring was not lost. He knew also the chance that sending more intruders might create a war in the mines. Once they passed into the light again and came at last through the Golden Wood then he would act . . .


	4. Holes and pit-falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That was the sound of a hammer, or I've never heard one"...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

Chapter 17 (see note above) - Holes and pit-falls

The darkness was all consuming. Even Mirkwood at night could not match the blackness of the mines. Legolas tried to walk as close as he could to the bright sword Aragorn held. Only Gimli and Frodo were between him and the flickering blue sign of hope. It was strange that their only hope should spring from their greatest fear.

Although a few of the others may have thought otherwise, Legolas would have preferred the constant threat of the Orcs than walk without light. In fact without light it would have proved an impossibility to make the journey for the path under their feet was scattered with holes and pit-falls that would have surely cause their deaths.

When they came to a crack running horizontally across their path, larger than any they had seen, Pippin simply refused to jump. Legolas could well understand this for although he knew he could easily make the distance, the sound of water, churning and tumbling below made even his legs weaken. They devised a strategy for the larger hazards, which involved Legolas and Faramir, who walked at the end of the party, throwing each Hobbit over the gaps into the safe arms of Aragorn and Gimli. This speeded up their journey for the Hobbits trusted their taller companions implicitly and it saved the trouble of building up enough courage to jump themselves.

Legolas walked in silence, as did most of the others. A growing terror was creeping upon the Elf's mind and although he tried hard not to show it, memories of their last encounter in the dark plagued his thoughts. His breath was short and uneven and he thought perhaps he had cracked a rib when he was thrown against the cliff. The air in the mines was cool and although it was thick, it did not seem foul. Legolas felt the air touch his wet clothes and for once he felt cold. Though the weather hardly ever affected him, as on Caradhras he had only felt a slight chill, it was the soaking shirt pulling on his shoulder that made him cold and uncomfortable.

His shoulder was proving to be more of a burden than he had anticipated. The burning feeling was constant and it prevented his mind from wandering off into other thoughts. He knew Aragorn would not take offence at what he had said before, his friend would realise he was only concerned for the safety of the company. He wanted to be of what use he could be although Legolas trusted Gimli, Aragorn and Faramir to keep them safe. In fact he was surprised that his preconceptions of the later had proved so unfounded.

Legolas had at first presumed Faramir to be like other men of the land, proud and with no thought for how their actions affected nature, but as they had spent more time together Legolas perceived Faramir to be similar to Aragorn. In fact the air about each of them was so reminiscent of the other that some would have mistaken them as brothers. Looking closer one could see Aragorn was the one whose eyes held the power and grace of the Kings of old but because of Faramir's similarity to his friend, Legolas couldn't help beginning to respect him. And his eye was as keen as Aragorn's with a bow, fine archery never failed to impress the Prince of Mirkwood who had been using a bow for longer than he could remember. A sharp stinging pain in his shoulder brought him out of his contemplations and back to the journey at hand. He was suddenly aware of a soft voice and listening harder he realised it was Frodo, muttering words mortal ears could not catch.

"So many passages and stairs. How could Aragorn possibly know the way? Nothing but darkness and the sound of our feet." The voice was small and afraid, and Legolas' heart went out to the ill-fated Hobbit at once. He would have said something of comfort but he did not trust himself to speak. There was a lump in his throat that had been growing ever since they entered the mines.

"That's Gimli," Frodo said to himself, and Legolas also heard the Dwarf's heavy boots thudding on the stone. "Aragorn and Faramir."

Frodo began to speak again and then Legolas heard him draw a sharp breath. "But who's that?" the Hobbit whispered. "Bare feet? Pattering alone. But not Hobbit feet…" Legolas listened hard and thought for a moment he had heard what the Hobbit claimed. "Oh, I must be imagining it," Frodo told himself and Legolas decided he must have been right. After all, what could be following them so closely without giving themselves away. Surely not an Orc, Legolas would have heard them long ago. Though, he thought, the Orc under Saruman's orders they had met in the tunnels possessed greater intelligence than Legolas would have credited to any of their mutated breed.

Perhaps they knew we would come and are lying in wait. What if this is all just a trap? Legolas shook his head, shaking the grim thoughts from his mind. The company was coming to a halt and it seemed as though Aragorn had decided to stay for some time.

From where the company stopped they could see the entrance of three passages leading ahead into darkness. They were in a kind of antechamber where the stones under their feet had been worn away with great use. Legolas eagerly laid down his supplies. His shoulder had been strained by the weight and he was glad for the chance to rest. With a great effort, he pushed the uncomfortable thoughts from his mind and went to speak to Aragorn.

"Are we where we should be?" Legolas asked, coming up silently behind him. He was surprised to see Aragorn start because usually Aragorn would not be caught of guard by anyone.

"Legolas," he breathed, "I did not know you were behind me."

"You are losing your touch, my friend," Legolas smiled, seeing Aragorn was a little on edge, he hoped to make him forget his trouble a while. "Surprised by an Elf? Next I will hear that Gimli has been climbing trees!"

Aragorn managed a week smile. "How are you fairing?" he asked the Elf and Legolas purposely avoided the question.

"I truly do not know how you find the right way in this cursed darkness," he said lightly, meaning it as a compliment. Aragorn's face remained grave and Legolas grew worried.

"I believe we are going in the right direction now but I truly have no memory of this place." Aragorn's voice was little more than a whisper and the man's eyes strayed to the three passages. Legolas knew Aragorn needed to share his burden with somebody and he was glad he held the Ranger's trust, but he wished Aragorn had told anyone but himself. It was enough in itself to cope with the darkness but knowing they were as good as lost made everything so much worse. The Elf begrudged Aragorn nothing for his confidence in him but he truly wished he had remained ignorant.

Legolas' eyes strayed to the side where Gimli and the Hobbits seemed to be exploring the entrance to a side chamber that he had not noticed. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to see further into the cave. Frodo hand held a glowing Sting and from its light Legolas saw with sudden horror what was inside. His eyes widened as he realised Gimli's poor sight had not picked up what his own keen eyes had seen. Gimli wandered through the entrance, examining the stone work on the walls, with no idea of the danger he was in.

"Gimli! Daro!" [Stop!]

Faramir was a few steps behind the Dwarf when he heard Legolas' cry. Although he did not understand the meaning he knew it was a warning. He had come to take the Elf's instincts as law so he rushed forwards towards the retreating Dwarf. Gimli either had not heard the Elf or had chosen to ignore him for he walked forwards without so much as a turn of his head.

"Gimli!" Faramir shouted, realising he would not reach the Dwarf before he had passed some steps into the chamber.

Faramir flung himself forwards towards the Dwarf's flailing arm as Gimli's yell echoed around the enclosed space. Faramir felt the touch of Gimli forearm and gripped it tightly before Gimli's weight dragged him down.

In the centre of the chamber was a well, immeasurably deep, perhaps used by the guard who protected the three passages. Faramir's head and shoulders disappeared into the hole as he struggled to keep a grip of Gimli's arm. Small rocks and pebbles scattered from underneath his sliding body and crumbled into the pit. Faramir listened with dread but never heard them hit the bottom.

He clenched his jaw, determined that the heavy Dwarf would not be cast after the stones. Gimli's weight must have been partly due to his heavy chain mail as well as the axe that was most likely still in his belt. Faramir called out with difficulty for Aragorn as he felt himself slowly sliding further into the hole. Already his upper body was stretched down as far as he could reach. His hand was slippery and his hold on Gimli's arm was failing.

He heard a rush behind him and out of the corner of his eye, saw Aragorn fling himself down beside him and reach for Gimli's other hand.

"Aragorn, I cannot hold him!" Faramir gasped, as Aragorn tried to catch onto Gimli's other hand that he was waving around in the darkness.

Although it was pitch black, Gimli could obviously understand what was happening as each time Faramir's body slipped further, he was lowered down. "Let go, Faramir!" the Dwarf bellowed, knowing that at least one of them would be saved if he just let go now.

"Give me your hand, Gimli!" Aragorn yelled. "I cannot see!"

With desperation closing in on him, Faramir heard a scuffle behind him before two slim, strong hands came down on his own.

"I have you Gimli," Legolas' voice said in his ear and to his right he heard Aragorn's sigh of relief as he managed to catch a hold of Gimli's other arm.

With all three lying on their stomachs and reaching down into the black pit Faramir became aware of how foolish they must look. Aragorn counted and on three, they all heaved the massive bulk of a Dwarf back to safety.

Everyone lay on the floor breathing heavily for a moment until to Faramir's surprise, Legolas began to laugh. Aragorn quickly joined in and Faramir looked around for the object of their amusement. His eyes came to rest on Gimli.

He shook his head in disbelief, "do you mean to tell me, Gimli son of Gloin, that you were willing to drag us both to our deaths because you were not willing to part with your axe?"

Gimli looked confusedly down at the axe clutched in his hand, "this axe has been with me as long as I can remember," he said, growing red and flushed.

Faramir burst out laughing. The look on his friend's face clearly said that Gimli had not even noticed he had been holding his weapon. No wonder Aragorn found it hard to catch his hand.

Faramir lay still for a moment, listening to the heavy breathing of his companions and the quiet whispers of Merry and Pippin, who, now that the danger had passed, were no doubt thinking of happier things. Faramir knew their conversation would be running along the lines of the company's food supplies, and the amount of good a pipe and some Old Toby could be to a foot-sore Hobbit so far from home.

His ears suddenly picked up another sound, echoing in the dark.

Tom-tap tom-tap.

A horrible shiver ran up his spine and Gimli jumped to his feet and went quickly to the well to listen. The others followed him cautiously, all hoping their ears had deceived them.

"That was the sound of a hammer, or I've never heard one," Gimli said, staring down into the dark hole that had nearly swallowed him a moment before.

Faramir looked to Aragorn and saw the man's face was darker than he had ever seen it.

Tom-tap tom-tap

Faramir was alone in the dark. Where the others were he did not know, to him there was only the sound of the hammer. Faramir narrowed his eyes in the darkness, searching for the illusive sound that seemed first to come from in front, then behind and then both! With each clash of the invisible hammer, he felt an echo of cold and fear rush through his body.

A shimmering shape suddenly emerged in the silent darkness before him. Faramir squinted in an effort to make out what it was. He breathed in sharply as he recognised the shape for what it was.

"Gimli?" he called, unsure whether his eyes were deceiving him. But although the stout figure did not turn to the sound of his voice or make any movement indicating he had heard, Faramir wasn't sure whether it was the Dwarf who stood before him.

Gimli was busy using his axe to chip away at some stones just out of Faramir's sight. The Dwarf raised his axe over and over again as the axe fell with a crash onto the rocks. He recognised Gimli's helm and dark reddish hair protruding from beneath it, he saw it was indeed Gimli's axe that struck the stone.

"Gimli? Gimli!" Why did the Dwarf not respond to his calls? Was the darkness of the mines so terrible that it could cut off sound as well as sight?

Faramir moved forwards, determined to take his friend by the shoulders and get a plain answer. He moved to the side so as the approach the Dwarf without fear of being impaled by the swinging end of Gimli's axe. But as he moved, it was as though Gimli moved too, turning away from him. Faramir moved faster but to no avail, it was as though the Dwarf before him had no face! He stopped dead, his heart hammering in his chest and fear racing through him. He listened with dread to the falling of the axe, noticing at once that the sound had changed. The high-pitched clash of metal on rock had dulled and seemed now to Faramir like distant drums. The noise grew louder and soon he had to press his hands over his ears to block out the terrible drumming.

Drums in the Deep

In panic Faramir reached out and grabbed the Dwarf's shoulder. A blinding light filled his mind and images flashed before him in a whirl of colour and turmoil.

Two slender boats, filled with bags and belongings, rushing swiftly towards a great waterfall. The white spray hiding them from view.

A being hooded in a brown cloak stood before a tower black as night. Metallic wheels and dark machines surrounding the base as creatures, twisted and mutilated prowled the boundaries.

A King. Crowned and robed in fine coloured clothes of green. Great anger was in the ancient face and in his eyes a lust for revenge or retribution. In his hands lay two objects. One, a golden book, adorned with silver writing and Elvish ruins, the other, a thick black arrow stained with dark blood.

His own father, Denethor, sitting on his throne with the great horn, Boromir's horn lying upon his lap. Broken…


	5. Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 18 (see note above) - Pity**

A chill wind blew through the tunnels and passages of Moria, whistling and shrieking as though chased by a creature of the underworld. Pippin pulled his blanket up further as though the think material could ward away the evils of the night.

He remembered when he was many years younger, laying in his comfy bed back in the Shire and being terrified the gremlin that he was sure dwelt under it would reach up and grab him. He had pulled the sheet up and over his head so the gremlin could never touch him. How much he would give now *only* to have to worry about invisible gremlins!

The whistling of the wind chilled his blood and he felt alone and defenseless sitting in the dark. Gimli's loud snoring, usually an annoyance, made Pippin feel less alone but he wished someone else would come and sit with him while he watched. He would have woken Merry but he knew his friend needed all the sleep he could get.

He shifted his body and winced as the cut on his leg began to sting again. His mind was haunted with the bodies and faces of the wolves they had fought. He wondered if Merry felt the same way. Probably not, Merry was so much braver than he. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the horrible, snarling face with its sharp and bloody teeth. He shivered and almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

" . . Frodo! You gave me such a fright," Pippin slowed his breathing with an effort and looked up into his cousin's pale face. "What is it? Is anything wrong?"

"You did not wake me for my watch, I thought perhaps you'd . . ." Frodo stopped, fearing he might offend Pippin if he continued.

"Fallen asleep on guard? Frodo, I may be just a burden to everyone but I would never . ."

"I didn't mean that, Pip, I just woke up myself and I wasn't referring just to you. Everyone is exhausted. You have done well to keep your eyes open this long. You have taken some of my watch too."

"Oh don't worry about that," Pippin said, back to his old self, "you deserve more sleep that all of us." Frodo was about to protest but instead he ushered Pippin to lie down and himself took his cousin's position a few metres away from the group.

* * *

After some minutes of solitude with only Gimli's snores and the quiet breathing of his friends to keep him company, Frodo's thoughts turned to Aragorn. The ranger had been unusually tense and silent since they arrived at the gate to the three passages and Frodo was sure it was the road ahead that troubled him. Aragorn had himself told them that it was Gandalf's purpose to go through the Mines and not attempt the Red Horn pass. It had been Aragorn who had convinced their guide to venture up into the snowy pass where Gandalf had been lost to them. Frodo was sure the guilt of this must lie heavy upon his friend who had only ever thought of their safety.

The other thought in Frodo's mind was that although he had never said so, Aragorn would not know the way as well as Gandalf did and perhaps they were already headed in the wrong direction.

Frodo glanced over at Aragorn's form, his blanket had become twisted around his body from the constant tossing and turning. If Frodo could manage it, he would prevent Aragorn from being woken for his watch. So much depended of his memory and senses that lack of sleep might cause their destruction.

Frodo's eyes swept over the rest of the company. Merry and Sam were sleeping soundly, wrapped tightly in their blankets for the night air was bitterly cold. Pippin must have fallen asleep the minute Frodo tucked him in.

Gimli lay on his back, the glint of his armour showing from beneath his cover. Frodo shook his head, how could the Dwarf possibly sleep wearing chain mail? It was a comfort though, Gimli at least would be ready for any danger even when he slept.

Legolas lay upon his blanket, his bow close beside him. He would have to be freezing without a cover, Frodo thought. Even Elves must feel this deadly chill. He was lying on his side, which also worried Frodo, for in all the time he had known Legolas, he had always slept on his back.

Faramir was the closest to him, his blanket had fallen off and Frodo went forward to help. He knew his friend would feel the effects of the cold in the morning if he did not wake from it now. Frodo reached out gently and dragged the cover back over the man's body. He breathed in sharply when Faramir moved in his sleep, reaching out and catching Frodo's arm. The grip was tight and Frodo saw the anguish in his friend's face. His eyelids flickered with the hidden dreams that were passing through the man's mind, and Frodo wondered whether he was dreaming about his home, his family, perhaps his brother.

Frodo had grown to like Boromir from what Faramir had told him. An ideal elder sibling; strong, loyal, protective, and a born leader. Frodo envied those who had such family to love, for being an orphan, he had none. His thoughts turned then to Bilbo and a great warmth mixed with sadness flooded through him. Faramir grip grew tighter and Frodo was about to shake him awake to rid him of the nightmare, when the grip on his arm loosened and Faramir's body relaxed.

Somewhat shaken, Frodo returned to the rock he had been sitting on and pulling his own blanket around him. He sat there for more than half an hour, thinking that it was almost time to wake the next watcher. Frodo hadn't been listening carefully when Aragorn told them the order, but he was almost sure it was Aragorn's turn next. In that case, he didn't intend waking the ranger and hoped Aragorn did not wake on his own. He sat there, listening to the wind rushing through the caves and after a moment or two, he thought he heard another sound, a low hissing. Frodo's eyes opened wide and he looked around nervously. Two pale lights stared at him from the shadows, he started, then blinked. The lights were gone.

Frodo drew a shaky breath, knowing his fears of the past days to be confirmed. The air shifted close to his ear and he spun quickly, his hand on sting's hilt.

"Be still," Legolas whispered next to his ear, and Frodo breathed out sharply, letting sting fall back into its sheath. "Something is close."

Frodo looked up at the tense Elf, he was frightened to voice his fears because it would make them all the more real. "He is still following us."

Legolas started and looked down at him. The name did not need to be spoken, both could see the dark shape moving less than two metres away. The Elf shot forwards, gripping his knife with white fingers.

"Legolas!" Frodo hissed, wondering in panic why none of the others had woken. He rushed forwards and gasped when he caught sight of the creature.

It was backed up against the rock wall, like a spider in a dark corner. Legolas stood close baring its escape and Frodo had never seen his friend look so shaken. The Elf's face had blanched white and his eyes burned with such anguish as he had never seen.

Gollum was a pitiful creature and Frodo's dark imaginings of the twisted, evil creature who pursued them were disappointed. Frodo was both relieved and disturbed by this revelation. Obviously the creature had been through much pain and torment, Frodo could see it in his bulbous eyes, and he wondered how much was occasioned to the ring. Gollum was whimpering and trying to slink further back into the darkness. His whole body seemed to blend with the dark and Frodo recalled the stories Bilbo had told him of the deadly competition they had held beneath the Mist yMountains. Bilbo had felt pity for the creature.

~What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature, when he had a chance! ~

~I do not feel any pity for Gollum.~

~You have not seen him.~

And now I see him, Frodo thought sadly of Gandalf's wise words to him so long ago, I do pity him. The creature still made him afraid, but now Frodo felt compassion. Gollum was once a Hobbit-like being, and now a creature of the darkness, shying away from both sun and moon. Endless years of torment in the dark, fearing the dark, but hating the light more, and most of all the ring.

Frodo could feel his eyes upon him. Gollum knew, he knew what lay under the thin material of his shirt. Gollum knew he was trapped and with that knowledge came desperation. With a shriek Gollum changed from a snivelling weakling to a dangerous beast. He had far more speed than Frodo had given him credit for and it managed to skirt around Legolas' body and fly straight at Frodo.

Frodo gave a strangled cry of fear as he was knocked off his feet. Gollum was on top of him, hissing and scrabbling for what he knew was there. "He hass it, he hass it! Its oursss, my precious and you sstole it!"

Frodo heard his shirt tear as Gollum was pulled away by Legolas and thrown against the wall. He felt the urge to cry but held it back with a great effort. He scrambled to his feet and moved towards the others to get help.

Legolas had his back turned to Frodo and he held his bow so that the arrow almost touched Gollum's black skin. "No, Frodo. It will end here and now."

The words were spoken with such heavily controlled anger that Frodo stopped and turned back. Gollum was cringing on the ground, trying to squirm away from the arrow that was aimed steadily less than an inch from his face.

"He will never be able to harm another creature."

Frodo stood frozen as the bow string tightened.

"This is for the Elves who lost their lives to your Orc friends, Sméagol."

"They are not our friendss, no, we hatess them, nassty orcs!" Gollum's protests did nothing to shake Legolas' resolve.

"This is for you, Frodo, and all you will achieve." The Elf's finger loosened on the bow-string...

_~He is bound up with the fate of the ring. My heart tells me that he has some part to play yet, for good or ill~_

Frodo dashed forwards, crashing into the Elf and knocking him off balance. The arrow went askew and ricocheted off the roof of the tunnel. Frodo landed on top of Legolas and felt the Elf tense with pain as his shoulder was crushed beneath him. Gollum sprang to his feet and disappeared into the dark, leaving the wisdom or folly of his choice to haunt the young Hobbit in the days to come.

~The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many, yours not least~


	6. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 19 (see note above) - Moonlight**

There was a full moon that night. But the figure who threaded his way through the ancient trees at the edge of the forest border was careful to avoid the silver light. The hooded cloak shaded him from unwelcome eyes, its deep brown hue blending with the undergrowth. The oppressive nature of the forest made the stranger feel uneasy and more than anything, unwelcome.

His own home, Rhosgobel, was situated close to another forest, in some ways even more deadly than this. But Mirkwood's evil was not veiled such as this place, the evil creatures that dwelt in Mirkwood's southern regions were clear and obvious. Visitors could prepare themselves for what they knew dwelt there. Fangorn was different. There was no animals to be seen, and yet he felt as though he was being watched. What disturbed him most was the lack of birds. The forest canopy was so thick and dark he could not imagine any creature surviving without the sun. The plant life, all except the tremendous trunks that stretched up to the deep green leaves seemed to be smothered. There was no wind, not even the smallest breeze could penetrate the thick, stuffy air.

He was not a traveler, and when he did journey it was only in the utmost need. However much he disliked leaving his home, the guilt and responsibility of his current task had forced the journey upon him. Though not directly involved with the events, he knew he held some responsibility to put them right again. And if his mission took him to Fangorn, where he was separated from the birds and beasts he loved most, he would hold firm until his task was completed, or he failed in the attempt.

He raised his brown eyes to the way ahead, sharpening his senses as he ventured further into the forest. He was weary and desperately in need of sleep, but he was nearing the end of his journey, and could not let fatigue endanger his safety now. He had left his home on the morning 4 days ago, and walked only when the sun was below the horizon. Sleeping during the daylight hours did not agree with him and he had slept badly.

But if he could find what he was looking for, his journey would be worth the loss of sleep.

There was a small glade ahead, bathed in the moonlight that the oppressive canopy had dimmed everywhere else. In the glade, the trees were younger than all the rest he had seen, and their leaves lighter, letting in the bright glow of the moon. He felt strangely drawn to the silent place, though he was weary as well, for he knew well that seeming safe, and being safe, were often two very different things.

He moved cautiously, keeping in the shadows around the edge of the clearing. Living near Mirkwood, and watching as growing darkness of Dol Guldur spread across the whole of the forest had made him suspicious.

He suddenly realised the wood was not as silent as it had been before he entered. There was strange whispers and a creaking and groaning like the boughs of trees being moved after years without wind. He turned slowly, scanning the area for what had caused the disturbance. At first he could see nothing, though the shadows on the left of the clearing seemed darker than before. He took a few steps forward, hoping he might have at last found what he sought.

There was an old tree among the shadows, with limbs and boughs thinner than others he had seen. Its leaves moved slowly, though there was no wind. A great wave of fear swept over him as the tree seemed to grow darker, clouded in shadow. And then it was gone. The whole tree was simply gone. The spot where it had grown before was empty, teasing him as though the lithe trunk he had seen with his own eyes had never existed.

The hissing began again, and this time the sound seemed to contain words. He was not sure whether it was his knowledge of plant lore and experience that gave him an insight into the words of the trees, but he could distinguish the individual words.

"Not an Orc, not an Elf . . . then what is it? In our forest, our forest . . ." He took a step backwards, away from the hissing voice. His back suddenly collided with the bark of a tree and he spun around, knowing that there had been no tree there before. It was the dark tree, and somehow it had moved so quickly he had not seen it come behind him. It was still wrapped in shadows and its leaves moved eerily in the still air.

He could feel the malice and hate radiating from the creature, something had happened to make it approach him, and even though he did not know what the creature may be, he knew he was in danger.

Before he could move away, he felt of of the creature's roots close about his ankle, and even as he tried to free it, a thin branch curled about his arm. The tree-creature moved swiftly, but the shadow around it disguised its movements so it seemed not to be changing at all. He struggled with the hold on his arm, and tried desperately to free himself. His staff was wrenched from his hand before he could put it to any use, and more branches stretched out with unbelievable speed. A thick branch snaked around his chest and began crushing him.

He had no idea why the tree wanted to kill him, and even if he had wanted to plead with it to stop, the grip around his body was so tight even breathing was near to impossible.

His vision blurred, and he gasped for air. He felt himself begin to slip away, and directed his last thoughts to his cousin, 'I am sorry, Gandalf. I have failed you.'

Suddenly the hold on his body was gone and he slipped to the forest floor. A great booming voice filled the clearing, and broke into his spinning thoughts.

"Hoom!" The voice of thunder shook the very ground he lay upon, but he did not even have the strength to raise his head and see the creature that had almost killed him slink back into the forest in its shadowy form.

"Now, what have we here?" the loud voice rumbled, and he thought perhaps this was it. He had found what he had been searching for. He dragged himself to his feet, brushing the dry leaves from his brown cloak. He looked up at the towering tree-like figure and lowered his head in a bow.

"Fangorn, it is an honour." he was breathless, but determined to give the ancient creature the respect it deserved. "I have come to your mighty forest to ask for the aid of you and your Ents. I come in my cousin's place, for I feel he would ask you for this were he here. I am Radagast the Brown."

* * *

Sam Gamgee was no fool. He knew something was up. Ever since they had woken for breakfast there had been a tenseness in the air that made the whole business of companionship uncomfortable. No one was speaking. Gimli had made a half-hearted attempt to start a discussion on the subject of rock floors being a benefit to your home, but finding no one else eager to reply, or argue with, he trailed off and started grumbling. Even Merry and Pippin had been remarkably subdued. The darkness of Moria was taking its toll upon everyone and even the two voracious Hobbits had felt the oppressive stillness.

But it was Frodo Sam was most worried about. His master sat against the far wall, where he had been ever since Sam had woken. Strider had walked up to him earlier and Sam suspected the ranger's words had not been comforting. Strider had drawn away with a stern face and slightly slumped shoulders. Frodo's face had been white and his eyes wide, staring but Sam without seeing.

'It wouldn't be right to force Mr Frodo to tell me," Sam said to himself. 'The master will tell me in time, and if not, he'll have a good reason for doing so.' But Sam's resolution held less than a minute as another wave of doubt and fear washed over him.

'Surely he would have told me if he was ill,' Sam glanced over at Frodo who was picking away at the meagre rations they had shared.

Like Frodo, Sam could not make himself eat, he knew he would need the energy once Aragorn's decision was made and they were off, but his worry left him with no appetite.

Something had happened during the night, he was sure of it. 'Drat me twice over for not keeping a closer eye on him," Sam chastised himself. 'Still, there's no use cryin' over spilt milk. But what's to be done about it? That's the question. I could try talking to him, but when Mr Frodo is intent on keeping something hidden, I'll soon as bet it will stay that way.'

He sat there musing about it, fiddling with the straps on his pack. He sniffed, recognising the foul smell that had been lingering around the anti chamber all the time they had been there. How he wished they could move on! Surely Strider had some idea of the way. Once they all got moving he felt sure everyone's spirits would rise once more. Why didn't Aragorn decide quickly? Perhaps he was troubled by the same thing as Frodo, the ranger's face had looked rather drawn and pale of late. Sam felt a small pang of jealousy, why should Aragorn share in Frodo's secret and not himself?

He dismissed the thought quickly. He looked over to where Strider was standing at the entrance to the three passages. His brow was creased with worry and his dirt-smudged face set in a hard expression. From what Sam had seen, Frodo had not revealed any more to the ranger than he had to himself.

He narrowed his eyes and looked around. Gimli? Surely not, the Dwarf was not acting any different to usual, if he knew something, he was hiding it well. He watched as the Dwarf set down his plate and wandered back to the main group, apparently restless.

He prodded Faramir in the back, "What are you moping about?" Gimli sounded exasperated, "when you have the splendour of the Dwarf halls about you. Though they are dark now, I thought you at least would be interested in our architecture. You've often asked me about it."

"Not now, Gimli," Faramir replied without looking up.

Gimli laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder and Sam could see the glint of interest in his eyes.

"What ails you, friend? Perhaps someone will explain to me why everyone is so dull."

Faramir shrugged his hand off unceremoniously. "Please, Gimli. I need to think."

Sam looked up, surprised, but Faramir had not once glanced at Frodo so he did not suppose Frodo's problems originated there.

Sam remained confused. What could have happened during the night to make Frodo so frightened and pale, and Faramir standoffish? He cursed himself again for not staying awake. 'But I was bone tired last night, ready to drop. Even I can't stave off sleep like an Elf.'

An Elf. now that was an idea. His eyes searched rapidly, scanning the area. It never ceased to amaze Sam the way Elves could just blend into the background if they did not want to be seen. At last he saw him - Legolas was standing against the wall not far away from Frodo, and from what Sam could see, the Elf had his eyes fixed on his Master.

Disturbing thoughts coursed through Sam's mind. Could the Elf be the cause of Mr Frodo's distress? Was the ring involved? Ah, what happened during the night that could have made the Fellowship so distant towards each other? Sam wondered whether Elves had any desire for the ring of power. Surely not as master Elrond himself ordered it to be taken to the fire.

Sam fixed a hard gaze on Legolas, determined to put a stop to what ever was going on behind his back. Could someone so fair be evil inside? After all, the ring was beautiful and that was why it was so deadly. But looking upon the Elf's face, Sam could not make himself think there was any evil intent. Legolas' gaze clearly spoke of pity and compassion, but there was something else.

Sam considered himself a decent judge of character, and even the incident at the Prancing Pony with Strider had not damaged his faith in his own judgement. There was something else in the Elf's gaze behind the kindness, something hidden and yet as strong as the other qualities. Guilt.

Enough was enough. He was going to find out what had happened even if he hurt Frodo's faith in him in the process. It was hard for Sam to believe any Elf could do wrong after meeting Elrond, Glorfindell and the rest, Legolas himself included until suspicion cast its shadows. But Bilbo's stories about the Elves of Mirkwood came suddenly back into his mind. The Elvenking, Legolas' own father's imprisonment of the thirteen Dwarves, and he made up his mind that he would get to the bottom of it.


	7. Drums in the deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'They have taken the bridge and the second hall,' Aragorn read slowly. 'They are coming! - drums in the deep'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 20 (see note above) - Drums in the deep**

The eyes were still watching him. He could feel them boring into his back as he walked. Sam Gamgee was one very astute Hobbit. Legolas knew Frodo would never have mentioned the Gollum incident to Sam without everyone else coming to know about it. No. He had worked it out himself somehow.

The Elf was feeling the best he had for several days. Not even Sam's suspicions could cast the shadow back upon him, at least for a little while.

Aragorn had chosen the left-hand passage, and wise it had proved for they had come at last to the upper halls. The claustrophobic walls had fallen away and opened out into a cavernous space.

Great window-shape hollows lined one side of the amazing hall, and through these hollows, slanting beams of light shone downward.

Legolas stepped gratefully into the thin beam of sunshine. Specs of dust floated near him, illuminated by the bright sun above. He felt the golden glow of of the sun upon his skin, rejuvenating him after the days in only darkness. But there was a cold draft in the hall, and the others seemed to want to move on quickly.

"It can't be far to the eastern side now!" Gimli proclaimed. "From here we must get down to the level of the bridge and then out into the sun again!" He gave Legolas a meaningful glance and the Elf appreciated the gesture.

"What bridge do you speak of?" Sam asked, his attention momentarily drawn away from the Elf.

"The bridge of Khazâd-dûm, young Hobbit! The ancient defence of our people." Gimli leaned forward while Sam, Merry and Pippin gathered around him. "The chasm beneath the eastern gate is of a depth immeasurable," the Dwarf began, "and the bridge, it is so narrow that dwarves and enemies alike can only pass across it in single file!"

Legolas felt a rush of gratification to the Dwarf. Sam was so intrigued by the Dwarf's words that he had forgotten to keep his eyes on him. Legolas let himself relax while Gimli went on with his descriptions, sinking into a crouch and closing his eyes. Moria had affected him more than he would have liked to admit. His strength was depleted, and would remain so until the fellowship escaped the mines.

He could not blame Sam for being suspicious. The worst of it was that his suspicions were justified. Legolas had acted foolishly. The Elf had his reasons for wanting to kill Gollum, just as Frodo had to protect him, but the Fellowship had sworn their allegiance to the ring bearer and Frodo's word was what mattered. He would have to tell Aragorn what had happened. There was no other choice.

"Do the storytelling skills of the Dwarves equal those of the Elves?" The voice startled Legolas slightly. His eyes flew open to find Faramir standing over him. The Elf rose quickly, realising just how long he had been crouching. Gimli's story had now become a verse of some sort, and to Legolas' surprise it was quite pleasant to listen to.

Legolas wondered what the man wanted to talk to him about. Upon meeting his eyes, Legolas felt as though Faramir could see right through him. Legolas prided himself on being able to hide his feelings, but with Faramir's undivided attention focused upon him, he felt slightly vulnerable. The Elf shifted his position, uncomfortable under the steady gaze.

Faramir said nothing at first, perhaps waiting for the Elf to reveal what was on his mind. Legolas was unwilling to speak openly of his thoughts, at least until he had spoken to Aragorn. The closeness between Faramir and his King was unsettling to Legolas. He felt he could trust both openly, yet knew that the man who stood before him now was intelligent enough to be a valuable ally . . or a dangerous enemy. So far he had seen nothing to suspect treachery, but it was always wise to keep ones eyes open with dealing with men.

Sensing Legolas was unwilling to talk, Faramir began the conversation himself, "Samwise is unusually quiet today, I wonder what is on his mind."

Legolas tried to remain blank as Faramir searched his face for a reaction. Legolas cursed the man for his astuteness. "Perhaps he is anxious leave the Mines," Legolas suggested.

Faramir paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Perhaps."

"Gimli will be disappointed. You are missing his song."

The man smiled, yet there was a strange twist to the smile Legolas had seen there before. Determination. The Elf started to move away, anxious to be out of the conversation. Faramir's hand gripped his shoulder and stopped him from turning away.

"You do not trust me," the man said, a statement rather than a question.

"I do not," Legolas found himself saying, despite the hurt he could see in Faramir's eyes.

"I would not approach you were I not troubled by what is becoming of our company," Faramir said in a low voice. "The night… that night, I dreamt many things." The man's eyes clouded over and Legolas felt a strange foreboding creep over him. "I dreamt," Faramir went on, "of the rocks that were scattered into the pit when Gimli fell two days ago, I saw him turn his back on us, hammering into the rock - I heard drums, drums in the deep." The words flowed freely, and Legolas could see the doubt in the man's eyes.

"Have you told Aragorn of this?" Legolas asked softly.

"Nay, I do not wish to trouble him further. I have told no one but you."

A cold look came over Legolas's face for a moment. Was it all just a trick to make him feel guilty enough to reveal his secret? He looked into the man's eyes. No, sincerity and concern lay behind the gaze. Faramir was telling the truth.

Legolas took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully, "on the night you speak of, I relieved Frodo from his watch. Gollum was watching us from the shadows."

"Gollum? Here?" Faramir hissed, "Then he has followed us all the way through the mines?"

"So it seems," Legolas nodded. "Though I would ask you not to speak of it, at least… at least until I may speak to Aragorn."

Faramir nodded, his forehead creased in worry. "I pray that you do so quickly, our safety may depend upon it. Perhaps you need not tell him all, just as much as you have told me."

Legolas stared after him as Faramir moved back to the main group. How did he guess the Elf had not told him the entire story? Legolas followed the man reluctantly, half expecting the others to begin questioning him. But Faramir was true to his promise and said nothing.

"You did not hear my song!" Gimli complained as the Elf approached.

"I am sorry Gimli. Faramir was telling me of his halls in Minas Tirith, and how they are much finer than those of the Dwarves."

"Gimli's face grew red with indignation, "Is this true?" he demanded, staring up at the man beside him. Legolas held his breath.

"Master Elf mistook my meaning, Gimli," Faramir smiled, his eyes flicking to Legolas'. Again Legolas thought how dangerous this man could be if his intentions were evil. The laughter was put on, and behind the smiling eyes was a stern demand for Legolas to tell Aragorn before the danger could grow any greater. "What I did say," Faramir went on, "was that although the Halls of my father may be grand, they are nothing to the works and skills of the Dwarves.

Gimli puffed out his chest proudly and gave Legolas a haughty look. "You see, Elf? My human friend recognises true architecture when he sees it."

"Over here," a shrill voice shouted, and was immediately joined by another, "look what we've found!"

"Be careful!" Aragorn shouted back, "you do not know what may be inside. Here, I will enter first."

Legolas followed Faramir and Gimli through the northern archway. They found themselves in thin corridor, and following the voices they came to where the Hobbits were gathered around a stone doorway standing half open. Aragorn drew his sword, reaching out to push open the door. Legolas reached for his bow, seeing Faramir do the same from the corner of his eye. The door was old and almost falling apart on its hinges. As it creaked loudly open, dust and webs fell from it in a cloud, starting the Hobbits coughing.

All of a sudden there was a cry from Gimli, and the Dwarf was pushing forwards through the doorway.

"Gimli!" Faramir shouted as the dwarf moved into the room beyond. There could be no telling what dangers lay in the room, nor what had possessed Gimli to enter it alone. Legolas raised his bow and followed Aragorn as the Ranger went after the Dwarf.

The room was bathed in a eerie glow, so bright that at first they had to shield their eyes. Another of the hollows high in the wall cast a beam of light down upon a white stone slab in the centre of the room. Gimli knelt before the stone, one arm across his chest, and tears in his eyes.

"He is dead then," Faramir said softly. The letters on the tomb were unintelligible to the Elf, and he wondered how the man had deciphered them. It was the tomb of someone important, and from Gimli's grief Legolas guessed the one lying dead was known to his friend. He laid a gentle hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, giving what little comfort he could.

"I feared it was so since we entered the Mines," Gimli sniffed, "At first I thought Balin had never come here, but now I see. There has been no sound of Dwarvish hammers here for many months."

The words of Faramir's dream came suddenly back to Legolas.

~I saw him turn his back on us, hammering into the rock~

"We must leave this place," Legolas said quietly. "Something dark approaches."

"Look at this!" Pippin exclaimed, holding up a dusty book that seemed to be the only thing the Orcs had not plundered.

"Show it to me," Aragorn said sternly, relieving Pippin of its weight. The pages crumbled in his fingers as he quickly turned the yellowed pages. "It seems to be a diary of some kind," he said slowly, "and yet, yes, here you see? It just ends with this trailing line of letters."

'They have taken the bridge and the second hall,' Aragorn read slowly.

'they are coming! - drums in the deep'

'we cannot get out! they are coming . . .'

Silence echoed around the room as all the fellowship imagined the deaths of the Dwarves trapped in this very chamber.

"Horrible," Merry said at last, his voice filled with an indescribable terror.

"We must leave now," Legolas whispered, "now, Aragorn, while we. . ."

From far below them, it seemed, though drawing closer every moment, a sound like the beating of drums.

There was a ringing sound as Frodo drew sting from its scabbard. The blade was glowing with a blue fire. "They are coming," Frodo whispered.

"Drums in the Deep." It was Faramir who had spoken, and looking across at him, Legolas saw that the colour had drained from his face. "I should have heeded the warnings," the man said quietly, "and now we are trapped, trapped just as the Dwarves were before us."

"We cannot get out!" Gimli shouted, listening at the door for the sounds of feet rushing up the stairs. "They are coming!"

Legolas suddenly felt his stomach turn. The words, just as they had been written. Drums in the deep, we cannot get out, they are coming . . . Gimli had uttered the last words of his cousins, and so too would they be the epitaph of the Fellowship if they did not escape at once!

"Slam the doors and wedge them!" Aragorn shouted to Gimli, obviously fearing a surprise attack from the eastern door.

"No!" Faramir stopped Gimli before the Dwarf could bar the door. "Aragorn, we cannot shut ourselves in! We will be trapped as they were before us!"

Aragorn did not need to consider. "Leave the east door open, we will go that way! Gimli, Faramir, bar the other door. Though I fear it will not hold for long. Ready yourselves, the battle approaches!"

Already the floor was shaking with the pounding of heavy feet upon the stairs below. Legolas felt something black approaching, his heart sank under its evil. He steadied his bow in his shaking hands, knowing that if he faltered, he would die here in the dark, never to see the moon or stars again.


	8. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down the endless stair to the bridge of Khazad Dum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 21 (see note above) - Fear**

The room shook with dread and anticipation. Booted feet thundered through the great hall towards the chamber of Marbarzul, yet Aragorn still could not focus his thoughts. He held Anduril before him in readiness, with Faramir upon his left and Legolas upon his right.

It was going to have to be close combat. A dark atmosphere had filled the room ever since he had read aloud the demise of Balin's folk. The frightened Hobbits were not the only ones who had felt the change, all of the fellowship seemed to have become different.

Gimli was red with rage and bursting to avenge the deaths of his people. Aragorn was worried he would act rashly, but they could not afford any recklessness now. Their main objective had to be to escape the mines, even if that meant turning their backs upon their foes.

Legolas was still relying on his bow despite the close quarters. It had been his friend's decision to follow the fellowship into the mines, but it was for Legolas that Aragorn felt the most guilt if they died here away from all that the Elf loved.

Faramir had paled considerably, and seemed to be concerned over something he should, or should not have done. As far as Aragorn could see, the man had done nothing but save them from a grave blunder he himself would have caused if they had shut themselves in.

The Hobbits stood well back, Gimli standing protectively before them. Sam's brown eyes were burning with a fire that spoke of determination. They were all ready to do their parts, to give their lives for the quest.

But Aragorn was not willing to let them. He felt his responsibility for their safety keenly. But coupled with it was his duty to the ring-bearer, and worst of all, his own destiny. He had a dread feeling that he was going to have to make a choice, a choice between his friends and his duty. But he would make the choice with a clear head, for the battle was coming to him, and they would fight it together.

Doom, Doom... The drums became louder and louder. Hundreds of feet thundered down the corridor towards their chamber. There were cries and shrieks from the passage way, and the drums seemed now to be just outside the door. It juddered on its hinges as the first axe struck. Then the drumming halted abruptly, the wood splintered and cracked, and a great green hand slammed through the door, reaching out for the broken swords with which Gimli had wedged it shut.

With a cry Gimli rushed forwards, his axe raised above his head, determined that that first enemy to fall would be killed by the hand of a Dwarf.

"No, Gimli!" Aragorn shouted, but it was too late. The axe swept down towards the thick skin of the gigantic Troll's arm, and as it struck it shattered, sending shards of sharp metal flying. Gimli was thrown off balance, and he fell forwards. The giant arm plunged downwards through the door, catching Gimli by the throat and forcing the Dwarf to his knees.

Legolas let loose an arrow, but the wooden shaft fell back as it struck the greenish skin, doing little or no damage. Aragorn rushed to the Dwarf's side, but Frodo had beaten him to it. Sting flashed down in a fury of blue and silver. Gimli fell to the ground as the Troll shrieked in agony, almost wrenching Frodo off his feet as the sword came free.

Faramir and Legolas dragged the Dwarf away from the door as Frodo and Aragorn fled the volley of arrows that were fired through the hole made by the Troll's arm. Immediately, hammers and axes were brought down upon the door, hacking out great chunks of wood. Gimli staggered to his feet, clutching his bruised throat. He gave Frodo a pat on the head, saying nothing, but expressing his gratitude.

"We will go through the eastern door, "Aragorn said, "but we cannot run blindly with the Orcs in pursuit behind us! We must do something to delay them first." He swept his gaze over the Fellowship, making a swift decision. "Legolas, take the Hobbits. Wait for us at the bottom of the stairs. If we do not come, you must go on."

"Aragorn, we cannot leave you to fight the Orcs alone!" The Elf's eyes expressed a desperation that seemed to pass just between the two of them.

"I will not be alone," Aragorn assured with a quick glance at Faramir and the injured Dwarf.

"We can stay, Strider. We can fight!" Sam spoke for them all, but Aragorn was still reluctant to risk losing them or placing the ring in unnecessary danger. Whatever happened, Frodo had to leave the mines alive. That was his pledge, and it eased his mind to give the Elf some hope of seeing the stars once more.

"Go!" he shouted as another rain of arrows sprang from the door. They did not hesitate a second time. He was their leader, and he was relieved to see them leave before the full assault of the Orcs fell upon them.

Aragorn wiped his brow with a dirty hand, and readied his grasp on his sword. There was the thwack of a bow string, and Aragorn looked around to see that Faramir was firing through the newly-made holes in the door. The Orcs closest to the door screeched as they fell, but more Orcs just filled their places.

"The more we kill before they can enter, the less we will need to destroy later," Faramir explained, with a meaningful glance at Gimli. The Dwarf seemed indeed to be in a sorry condition, and Aragorn almost regretted not sending Gimli with the Hobbits. Dark bruises had already formed on the Dwarf's neck and he seemed to be swaying slightly on his feet.

Aragorn had no time to ponder further for at that moment, with a great groaning and splitting roar, the door crashed inwards. The first Orcs fell to Faramir's arrows, but then the battle was upon them, and there was no more time for archery. Aragorn shielded Faramir while the man changed weapons, but then they were swept apart by the fighting.

Aragorn found himself trapped up against the wall, hemmed in on all sides by the vicious, snarling creatures. Some of them were black Uruks of Mordor, far more dangerous than the regular cave-dwelling goblins.

He could hear Gimli's shouts from somewhere around the middle of the chamber. He cursed himself for not staying closer to Dwarf to make sure he was not still suffering from the effects of his brush with the cave Troll. Hopefully Faramir had been more successful than he.

Aragorn ducked as a broad sword slammed into the wall where his head had been a second before. He lunged forwards, driving his own sword into the creature's chest. But before he could pull it out, several other Orcs fell upon him, pushing him back against the wall with their twisted blades. Ramming his knee into the chest the first, he spun to the side, wrenching Anduril from the Orc's body, and barely avoided another blow to his chest.

A fist glanced off the side of his head, knocking him to the ground with vision that spun and blurred. He raised his arm to block the blows that rained down upon him, barely keeping a grip on the hilt of his sword. There was a mighty roar from somewhere above and then the Orcs around him seemed to fall away. Blood splashed onto his face and then Gimli was there, pulling him to his feet and patting him on the back.

Most of the Orcs had either been killed, or fled to gather reinforcements. Aragorn wiped his eyes and gazed around the bloody chamber, looking to the far wall where Faramir was battling the remaining Orcs. They had him up against the wall, as Aragorn had been a moment before. With another shout, Gimli sprang to the man's aid, slashing into the backs of the Goblins with an axe he had borrowed from his long dead cousins.

Faramir, now free from his attackers, moved up to Aragorn breathing hard. The man had a nasty gash on his forehead, but otherwise seemed to be unharmed.

"We must leave before the Troll returns," Aragorn said. "We will rejoin the others."

Gimli laid his broken axe hilt upon Balin's tombstone, "I can let my axe lie here without shame, for it was broken defending the Lord of Moria and will stay ever by his side."

Together the Dwarf and the two men stumbled down the steep flight of stairs that wound ever downwards towards the eastern gate. They were plunging straight into darkness. They did not dare rely on Glamdring's light for it would draw enemies to them. Blasts of hot air seemed to rise up to meet them as they descended, and from below the sounds of Orcs grew gradually louder.

It was some time before they had reached the base of the first stair, and to their joy they found the others waiting for them. The Hobbits were crouched against a low wall, and soon it was clear why, for arrows immediately came flying out of the darkness towards them. Faramir pulled Aragorn back against the wall, barely avoiding the volley of missiles.

Legolas was crouched to the left of the path, his bow aimed into the darkness ahead. Aragorn tried to spot their enemies but found his comparatively weak eyesight could not penetrate the darkness. The Elf let an arrow loose, and from somewhere ahead a goblin screeched and fell. Aragorn breathed his relief at his friend's remarkable accuracy, knowing he had sent the correct companion with the Hobbits.

"I believe that was the last of them." Legolas looked up at Aragorn. "We should go on before they gather reinforcements." 

Aragorn nodded, swallowing his feeling of unease. He led the way, the Hobbits close behind him. Horrible shouts echoed from the pit below them. Their present danger would be nothing compared to the crossing of the bridge of Kazad-dum.

* * *

Merry held his breath as they neared the bottom of the seventh flight of stairs. At first he and Pippin had tried to count as they descended, but hundreds had turned into thousands and they both had lost count long before they reached the last stair.

The air was filled with foul fumes and a hot gas that suffocated and choked. It was nearly an hour since Legolas had led them from the tomb of the Dwarf lord, and his overwhelming relief at seeing Aragorn, Faramir and Gimli alive had kept him moving for some time. But all the Fellowship were weary, Pippin and Frodo especially, and even Aragorn seemed more drawn that the Hobbit had ever seen him.

"We must be nearing the level of the gate," Aragorn told them, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead. "This heat is unnatural - there is something evil afoot at the bridge, I am sure of it."

Merry could feel it too - a heat that made the Hobbit's clothes cling uncomfortably to his hot body. Legolas seemed to be the only one unaffected by the heat, and again Merry marveled at the superiority of Elves.

"Gimli will lead the way to the gate," Aragorn said, looking around intently at the faces of the fellowship. "Frodo, Sam, you follow next with Legolas, then Merry and Pippin with Faramir. Do you all understand?"

Everyone nodded, and Merry felt almost afraid of the intensity with which the Ranger spoke. Aragorn was worried about them all, it was clear, and knew he could not be everywhere at once.

"Whatever happens, cross the bridge and leave the mines on the other side." Aragorn addressed them all, but Merry knew the words were meant for Frodo.

With pale but determined faces, the Fellowship left the safety of the shadows and crossed into what Aragorn had suspected to be the Second Hall. The hall was far larger than the one they had been in before. It stretched westward into darkness, and its length could only be marked by the flickering red light that played upon the shiny black pillars that ran along its centre. To their right a fissure of fire had opened, spanning the whole width of the hall.

"It is well for us the Orcs attacked when they did!" Gimli exclaimed. "If we had come by the main road we would have been trapped behind the fire."

"As our enemies have just discovered," Faramir said, his eyes fixed to the flickering flames that licked the base of the pillars.

Merry saw he was right, the enemy thundered towards them through the hall, only to come up against the fiery trap that lay in their path. The drums grew louder and the shrieks and cries of anger by the Orcs did not cease. Arrows and spears were launched at the fellowship and they turned east once more and fled for the bridge.

Merry's heart pounded as he ran - he had never moved so fast in all his life! It was then he saw the bridge. Horror at the thought of crossing it flooded through him, but all his self doubt was washed away in another moment as all the Orcs behind them grew suddenly silent.

The fellowship turned back to see what had become of their enemies. The Orcs had parted rank, and two great Trolls, such as the ones Bilbo used to tell tales of, stepped forward and threw stone slabs down to bridge the chasm of fire. The Orcs still remained eerily stationary.

Suddenly Legolas cried out, his Elven eyes piercing the darkness where Hobbit eyes could not. "Ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is coming!" To Merry's horror the Elf's bow slipped from his fingers.

Behind him he heard the Dwarf's axe do the same, "A balrog! The scourge of our people! Durin's bane!" The Dwarf's shout cast fear into the very depth of Merry's heart, and though he knew not what approached, he felt himself trembling.

From the centre of the Orc ranks a darkness touched with fire came forth. Merry's breath caught in his throat as the Balrog rose blazing to its full height.

The creature of fire saw its foes about to escape across the bridge and thundered towards them, its deep growl drowning out the sound of the drums.

"Go!" Aragorn shouted, shaking them from their stupor. "Go!" He pushed Gimli towards the bridge. The Dwarf scooped up his axe and bent low as he raced across the stone arch. There were no hand rails and no supports of any kind, and Merry dreaded his turn to cross.

Frodo and Sam went next, followed by Legolas. Merry began to feel the heat on the back of his neck as the Balrog approached. The beast seemed to be made entirely of fire and ash, even its eyes were like red hot coals, glowing in the dark.

Then he was running, tears of fear blurring his vision as the solid ground disappeared into darkness and their feet pounded over the narrow stone. Pippin was close behind him, and above the roar of the Balrog he could hear his cousin breathing his uneven gasps.

Aragron and Faramir were somewhere behind, though he could not hear anything more over the cracking flames. The end of the bridge was near. Closer, closer!

Merry stumbled onto the slope at the other side of the bridge, forcing his legs to pound up the steep incline to the base of the stairs. They were safe!

Suddenly there was a cry from behind him, and he turned his head to see Pippin slip and fall, tumbling backwards past a startled Aragorn and Faramir.

He was falling back towards the bridge, towards the pit, towards the Balrog!


	9. Fire and shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that during chapters 2-14 (see note below), Gandalf was snatched from the Fellowship by Saruman, leaving only his sword and broken staff behind. 
> 
> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. 
> 
> Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 22 - (see note above) Fire and shadow**

"Pippin! Pippin!" Merry screamed out his cousin's name as the small bundle rolled almost to the edge of the chasm. His heart seized in his chest - this nightmare had now crossed the bounds of bearable fear.

The Balrog had reached the bridge. The beast's wings were stretched out to their fullest extent, and blasts of choking air rushed at them as the great spans of darkness swept back and forth. Pippin was almost clouded by the darkness, although Merry could just make out the Hobbit's pale frightened face on the brink of the chasm.

All fear for himself had dissipated, and now there was only a burning ache in Merry's chest that told him over and over that he had failed to protect Pippin. Finally he was spurred into motion - he would try to save Pippin, and if he could not . . . He sprang forwards, determined, but he had only gone a few steps when a slender arm grasped him around the waist and drew him back. The arm was so strong he had no hope of escaping from it. He struggled in vain, sobbing with frustration and guilt.

"Be still Merry! There is nothing you can do!" The Elven voice was strangely comforting, yet Merry did not want to be comforted.

"Let me go, Legolas. Please let me go!" Merry's cries were no use, and the Elf was not going to let him run to his death, but neither were Aragorn and Faramir willing to watch Pippin go to his. The two men were arguing half way down the slope. Aragorn moved towards the pit and Faramir blocked his path. Merry may not have known much, but he was not blind to Strider's history. There was a higher purpose to his existence than protecting the life of single Hobbit, and from the torn look on the Ranger's face, he knew it too.

Pippin seemed to be having similar thoughts, and Merry saw his cousin rise shakily to his feet and begin to stagger towards them. He felt a sudden rush of hope fill him at his cousin's bravery, but it fled just as quickly when Pippin again collapsed.

That seemed to be the decisive moment. In an uncharacteristic show of violence, Faramir shoved Aragorn back. Merry held his breath as the two men regarded each other for a moment.

"Lead them on, Aragorn! Lead them on!" The man turned his back and skidded down the slope towards Pippin. Aragorn's anguish when he turned back to face them that spurred Merry's fear - did this mean that there was no hope?

Aragorn was just in time to prevent Frodo from doing exactly what Merry himself had tried to do. Realising he could loose two friends, Frodo had run back down to try to help. Aragorn grabbed the Hobbit before the Ring bearer could put more than only himself in danger with his concern. Then they could only wait.

Merry had ceased struggling in the Elf's hold, and noticed Frodo had done the same. Merry could see the reason his elder cousin, as the ring bearer, should not be put in danger, but himself? What did it matter if he got himself killed protecting his cousin? But then his eyes met with Aragorn's, and he saw the guilt that would result from loosing Pippin. And resolved that he would only lay that guilt upon another if there was no other way.

Faramir had almost reached Pippin, and from the fiery form of the Balrog above came a rumbling sound, like deep knowing laughter. The man grabbed Pippin by the shoulders and together they began to make their way up the slope away from the bridge and the Balrog.

The beast of fire and shadow was not idly named Durin's Bane. It was not going to let its enemies escape so easily. Another step onto the bridge, and it raised its whip above its horned head. Merry held his breath and felt tears slide out of his eyes.

The thongs of fire cracked into the stone of the ramp with such a noise that Merry flinched and shut his eyes. A great wall of fire leaped up where the whip had struck and for a moment Pippin and Faramir were hidden from view. There were cries of dismay from around him, and Merry felt Legolas' hold on his arms loosen slightly as the Elf cursed under his breath.

The blazing wall of fire had separated the fellowship and drawn a line trapping two of them within the fiery tomb of the Balrog. There was no hope.

Merry let out a sob he had been holding inside, and with a surprising burst of strength, tore himself from the Elf's grasp. He heard his friends calling for him but he did not stop. He tore down the slope at a great pace, unafraid of the orange wall that barred his way.

He reached it in another moment, and cried afresh because he had not the strength of will to test fate by plunging through it. He could see his friends within, illuminated now by the bright flames. Gandalf's sword lay beside them, as Faramir had carried it down from the upper halls. Small tongues of flame littered the ground, and the corner of Pippin's cloak was ablaze. They might have been dead, but Merry could not let himself believe it. He called out to them by name, as if his voice could call them from the shadow. The Balrog seemed to have the same thought, it approached with a rush of choking air that sent Merry sprawling backwards. The wall of flame seemed to die a little with the dark air that pushed from the creature, and Merry could see over it. He thought, though he was certain to have been imagining it, that there was a sign of life. The smallest movement of Faramir's hand, a flicker of Pippin's tear stained eyes. He must have been imagining it. He turned away, hiding the bodies from his blurry eyes.

A roar and a rush of sparks and bits of debris hit him full in the back. He was knocked to his knees, and when he could bear to turn back, expecting to see the destruction of his friends' bodies, he saw two ghosts rising from the dead.

Faramir was on his knees, with Pippin, alive, rising beside him! Merry's eyes fixed on the the object in Faramir's hand - that which he had carried all along since they lost Gandalf. Then the piece of Gandalf's staff was flying, and the Balrog was shrieking backwards away from the instrument of power. It was going to miss! Merry just knew it! The throw had been true, but the Balrog had realised too early. It was going to miss. And it did.

The staff fell short and struck the Bridge of Kazad-dum with a blinding flash of white light. The Balrog shrieked again, and Merry heard a pounding of feet behind him. Legolas and Gimli had followed him, but they would come too late.

A grinding, cracking sound echoed through the cave, and the Balrog, seemingly angry beyond reasonable thought, forged onward. The stone cracked, split, and fell away, drawing the fire and shadow with it.

The Balrog fell out of Merry's sight, but liquid fire flashed upwards. The whip curled through the air towards them and Merry cried aloud as it smashed downwards, latching onto the legs and waists if his friends on the ground.

Merry ran forwards through the diminished wall of flame, not caring that the hot coals burnt his skin. Pippin called out to him in terror as he was dragged closer to the edge, the burning rope curled about his ankles.

Merry did not know what possessed him to do it, but he seized Glamdring from where it had fallen, and raised the mightily sword as far as his strength would let him. The white blade sliced through the orange thongs of the Balrog's whip, freeing his friends and throwing Merry off balance. He toppled backwards, striking his back and head against a piece of rough stone behind. Pippin was calling his name but Merry couldn't see. Everything was dim and in another moment, feeling himself lifted from the ground by strong arms, he fell into darkness.


	10. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 23 - Freedom**

The ground was moving beneath him. He was being jolted painfully along, held over the shoulder of whoever was carrying him. He tried to twist his head around to work out where he was, but the movement sent shards of pain rushing through him, and he had to be content with blindness. It was still dark, and Pippin suspected they were still in the mines. He shuddered. There was a deep, burning heat in his legs and ankles that brought back fresh images of the fiery creature that had tried to drag them into the pit. With a small start he tried again to see around him. Had everyone escaped? Where were Faramir and Merry?

"You squirm like a young serpent!" said a gruff voice close to him. "Be still lest I let you fall."

"Gimli!" Pippin cried. "Let me down, please. I can walk on my own legs." The world flipped as the Dwarf placed him the right way up. Pippin swayed for moment, catching onto the Dwarf's sleeve to steady himself. He realised at once that his limbs had been numbed while slung over the Dwarf's shoulder. As the blood flowed back down to his feet, the true agony of the burns to his ankles and legs took hold, and he gasped, tears starting in his eyes. He felt his knees buckle, and the Dwarf's steadying hold on his upper arm prevent him from falling.

"Take it slow, little Hobbit," Gimli said kindly, and Pippin stood a moment, allowing each fresh throb of the burns wash over him.

Then, as Gimli led him onward, he looked around for the others. He and Gimli were the last of the company, and Pippin was strangely reminded of a tale Bilbo had told him years before - of a Dwarf carrying a Hobbit through Goblin infested tunnels.

But the rest of his companions were not Dwarves, and as Pippin counted, he was relieved to find all eight of them had escaped. Ahead, Frodo and Sam were helping Merry along. Pippin felt such a rush of admiration for his cousin - how would he ever repay the debt he owed to both Merry and Faramir for protecting him?

Ahead was the great gate that opened upon the world. In the harsh light that streamed through it, Pippin could make out the three figures of the taller members of the fellowship. Aragorn and Legolas seemed to be almost carrying Faramir between them. A fresh rush of guilt made Pippin want to curl in upon himself. He had put his friends and the quest in danger.

Pippin's memory was blurry in places, but he remembered the explosion of painful light that had been brought down upon them by the Balrog's whip. He remembered feeling sparks fly in his face, and being thrown off his feet. And worst of all he remembered the weight of Faramir's body above his own as the fire and ash rained down upon them. The man had protected him, and now Pippin was at a loss as to how he could ever repay the debt. Faramir had breathed a name in that moment, and only now did Pippin recall it was the name of his elder brother. He had been calling for his home, as Pippin had been for his.

The light ahead grew brighter, and everyone looked upon it with hope and relief. 

So it was that none saw the Goblins slip out of their positions of guard and fall upon the weary travellers. The first three goblins, with weapons raised, moved to break apart the two men and the Elf who were leading the party. Anduril flashed in the afternoon light, the first Goblin fell. Dark blood splattered on the doorstep of Moria, and with a cry of "Elendil!" Aragorn led them out into the sunlight. The remainder of the Goblins scattered, and fled before the wrath of the heir of Elendil. In his dazed state, the short glimpse of Aragorn's hidden prowess astounded to the small Hobbit.

Once out of sight of the doors, and far away from the echoes of drums beneath the earth, the fellowship allowed themselves a short moment to rest, and reflect on their dark journey through the halls of Durin.

Frodo, Sam and Merry cast themselves upon the ground. In the morning sunlight each one of Pippin's friends seemed pale and frightened. Even Aragorn had resumed his troubled expression and settled back into the role of the Ranger he played so well. Pippin sat alone, and uncharacteristically refused his food when Gimli kindly offered it. The Dwarf stared at him strangely, but did not press him. It would take time, Pippin knew not how long, to recover from the shock. It was not that he could have died - he had accepted that from the beginning - it was that he could have dragged his companions, friends, down with him.

At last Pippin raised his eyes to the pink sky. He would redeem himself the only way he knew how. He would do anything in his power to aid the quest. He would keep his eyes open and alert. For the debt he owed to Faramir, he made a solemn promise that he would bring the man home to his brother and his home. It was no light undertaking, but he did not make idle promises, and the heavy debt of gratitude he felt would only be lightened by the hope of redemption. Pippin took a deep breath. Despite the pain in his legs he felt as one renewed. The blushed light on his face chased away the shadows of the night and the terror they had found in the mines.

Merry came over and sat by him. They did not speak for some time, merely relieved that they were safe.

"I was so afraid, Pippin," Merry admitted quietly.

Pippin smiled. "And you believe I was not?" He reached over and slapped his cousin on the back. "You are a silly Hobbit, Merry! Fancy leaving Frodo to chase after me." Merry raised an eyebrow, and Pippin realised his friend had not thought of it that way.

Pippin suddenly grew solemn. "I want you to promise me something, Merry." His cousin starred at him for a moment, unsure whether the sudden change of mood was due to illness. "I want you to promise that if something happens, and I choose a different path, that you will not follow." Pippin's intense gaze searched Merry's eyes. "I need you to promise me, Merry. Promise you will not try to follow."

Pippin realised he had been gripping Merry's hand tightly enough to make the other wince. He loosened his grip at once, and Merry smiled unsurely. "You should take some rest, Pippin. I will call Aragorn to see to your wounds."

Pippin would not let go of his cousin's hand, and waited for the answer he must hear.

"Alright, I promise. Now come - Aragorn will help." Pippin was far from satisfied with Merry's casual response, but let his grip slacken. If the time came, Merry would remember this moment, but then it would be too late.

Pippin allowed himself to be helped to his feet. In moving slowly towards Aragorn the Hobbit passed Gimli and Legolas who were talking together. Gimli gave Pippin a pat on the head and Legolas smiled. It seemed both were harbouring guilty feelings about not being there when the Hobbits needed them the most.

Aragorn smiled grimly as Pippin was set down beside Faramir. It seemed Aragorn was having just as much trouble coaxing the man of Gondor into recovery as Merry had had with Pippin.

Pippin felt a slight sick feeling rise in his stomach when he looked again at Faramir. The man was bent over forwards, with his head pressed into his hands. The back of his shirt looked much like the lower half of Pippin's cloak and pants. Torn and red with blood. Pippin had not been overly conscious when the Balrog's whip had coiled around his legs. There had been only pain and a smell of burning flesh.

He was grateful that he had not been fully aware of what had been happening to them - that they had been completely helpless, pulled closer and closer to the pit by strands of liquid fire. Pippin shuddered violently, and felt Merry's hand come to rest on his shoulder. Aragorn came up and took his small hand in his own. Pippin felt a kind of warmth flow through him at the touch.

He was handed a cup of something hot and enticed to drink. A sort of numbness came upon him, so that he hardly noticed when Aragorn removed the torn scraps of fabric that still clung to his legs. The wounds were worse than Pippin expected, great wheals of red spiraling up his legs. He looked away from them, nauseated, and turned his attention instead to Aragorn's futile efforts with Faramir.

It seemed as though nothing could raise the man from his silent reverie. Pippin took the task upon himself, and after hesitating, forced himself to reach out and touch the man's hand. Faramir looked up slowly, and Pippin tried not to wince as he saw the red mark of a burn down one cheek.

Pippin tried to smile, but failed. The lines on Faramir's forehead seemed to relax at the Hobbit's attempt. "I am glad to see you well, Pippin. I never thought to see anything again."

Pippin's face crumpled under the kind gaze Faramir had set upon him, and his body began to shake with the tears he had been trying to hold back for so long. "I am sorry. I am so sorry." He closed his eyes and felt the tears squeeze forth and splatter onto the grass beneath his bare feet.

Then Merry's arm was around his shoulders, and Faramir's hand was upon his arm. His friends were around him, shielding him from the shadows that were creeping around his heart.

The calming smell of Athelas filled the small glen as Aragorn crushed the dried leaves he had collected at Weathertop into the water Gimli had boiled for that purpose. The smell reminded him painfully of Rivendell and his father, Elrond.

The fellowship gathered closer as the smell reached them, and Aragorn thought how good it was to see them as companions once more. The mines had proved a great test for them, and the bond that held them together. But they had made it through, and if fate were kind, they would come to Lothlorien and the safety commanded by the Lady of the Golden Wood before long.

Aragorn wet a piece of cloth in the hot water and moved over to Pippin. The Hobbit was weak with fatigue and Aragorn was worried he would not be able to make the distance he planned on travelling. There was a great possibility the Orcs would come after them as soon as darkness fell, yet Aragorn hoped it would be possible to reach the Golden Wood before then.

He did what he could for Pippin, despite all the Hobbit's assurances that he was quite alright. Legolas then helped to wrap clean bandages around the worst of the Hobbit's burns.

Faramir's leather tunic had done much to hold back the fire and prevent the man's skin from blistering with the heat, but the burns on his chest and back were flushed an angry red. Aragorn cleaned the burns as well as he could in the short time he had, lending the Athelas, and all his own skill to give his friend the strength enough to reach the safety of Lothlorien. But still he did not know whether it would be enough.

Aragorn felt a lingering guilt within himself as he tended his friends' wounds. He knew in his heart that he should have been the one to protect Pippin, and cringed inwardly whenever he thought how easily his duty had given him the excuse to hand the job to another.

He thought to the future, to the day when perhaps he would come into his birthright as the king of Gondor. Would he so easily send his subjects, as he had done with Faramir, into the fray in his place? He could not believe it was in his nature, as he had lived too long by his own rules. But kings had a responsibility to protect themselves for their country, and however Aragorn hated the idea, Faramir knew and accepted it. His friend had felt it a duty to put down his life for his king, and Aragorn, if he ever came to hold that position, would have to grow to accept it also.

"Would you prefer if I did not bandage it?" Aragorn asked Faramir in a low voice. The man straightened his back and reached out for a spare shirt.

"I will survive," he grimaced, pulling the material over his head. "There is no more time for rest. And I doubt there is much more you can do for me, Aragorn. I feel almost whole again." Aragorn rose, satisfied, and barely caught the quietly murmured words, "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer."


	11. Golden leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 24 - Golden leaves**

Deep in the valley before them, where the land sloped down gently, was the grey shadow of a forest. And there grew trees of the like he had never before laid eyes on in Middle Earth. He was not one for admiring trees of any sort, he was content to leave that to the Elves, but these trees were so unusual, with their straight grey trunks and almost golden leaves, that Gimli's eyes were caught by their unnatural beauty.

It had been hours since they had emerged from the mines, and the sun had almost disappeared beneath the horizon, yet still they feared pursuit. Gimli was uneasy. He had not felt less sure of himself, or his mission, since he had dwelt within Elrond's house. The thought of traversing the realm of the Lady, of whom he had heard mysterious stories, disturbed him greatly.

"There is naught to fear within Her borders, my friend," Legolas had assured him. "She is as wise as she is beautiful." Gimli's still doubtful look caused Legolas to smile. "You will understand when you meet her."

Gimli's feelings of unease were not all due to the thought of entering the haven of the Elves, nor the host of Orcs Aragorn suspected to be at their backs. There was something inside himself that made him cringe with shame. He would never see himself in the same light again. He had let his axe fall when facing the Balrog. He had failed to lead the fellowship to safety across the bridge. Worst of all, he had not been fast enough to prevent Pippin from coming to harm. Aragorn and Faramir had been left with the decision, and for this, he doubted he would ever forgive himself.

The silence of his companions was almost unbearable to Gimli, and he knew it was his duty to try and raise their spirits.

He came up alongside Aragorn and looked up into his friend's face. "I would say our pursuers have given up the hunt!"

The lines on Aragorn's forehead deepened. "I would agree with you, Gimli, were it not for a strange feeling I have had for some time now. I am sure we are not alone."

"We have seen no sign of pursuit. What is there to fear?" Gimli was putting on a cheerful, Dwarvish confidence he did not feel.

Plainly Aragorn was not convinced. "We may reach the eaves of the Golden Wood within the hour. I only hope there will not be time enough for any enemy who is pursuing us to lessen our lead and come between us and Lothlorien."

"Surely," Gimli began, surprised by the idea, "the Orcs of Moria would not think of such a strategy. It is true Orcs have been known to travel many leagues to avenge their losses, but we have seen no sign of them since we left the mines!"

"The trees of the border are in sight, though it is more than five leagues through to the forest to the gate. I would speak to Legolas on this. His eyes and ears are sharp, while yours and mine can be easily deceived." Aragorn turned then, leaving Gimli to lead the party alone.

The position was uncomfortable for him, as it reminded him of their exit from the mines. Gimli was also reluctant to be the first to pass into the Golden Wood, though none of the others seemed to share his concern.

The Hobbits went where they were led, objecting to nothing Aragorn suggested. Pippin and Merry were already dwelling on the thought of food and rest. Legolas and Aragorn were eager to enter the forest under the protection of the Elves. Even Faramir, who Gimli had thought of as one who would have seen sense, had looked ahead with a kind of boyish wonder.

"To think, Gimli," he had said, forgetting for a moment the pain of his wounds, "we will see her, the Lady that dies not! Strange tales, some evil, are told in Gondor about the Lady of the Wood. Though I believe such an ancient being would have to hold wisdom beyond the mortal mind."

"What then do you think of Saruman?" Gimli retorted. "Is he not one of the eldest of Middle Earth? Yet now we see that his long years have brought him only corruption and greed!"

"Do not forget, Gimli, that Saruman was great and noble before desire for power touched his heart," Faramir said gravely. Gimli felt himself almost convinced by the earnest words. "I cannot fault him. We all face trials..."

"Yet not all pass the test," Gimli finished.

As the shadowy form of the forest grew nearer, the wind died down, and their footsteps seemed almost loud. Simply breathing disturbed the quiet movement of the golden leaves in the still air. A strange feeling of enchantment crept over each of them, and Gimli felt his skin prickling in fear at the sensation. He kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his axe. He could now feel what Aragorn had been speaking of. Despite the feeling of the wood, something was not right.

The Fellowship had unconsciously drawn closer together, the Hobbits concealed between the tall forms of the two men and the Elf.

Suddenly Gimli felt a rush of air against his cheek, and had no time to comprehend just how close to death he had been. Hefting his axe with a shout, he turned and fixed his eyes in a haze of anger and surprise on the small group of Orcs that had been pursuing them. There were less than a dozen, but to the weary fellowship, there might have been hundreds.

They retreated under the covering fire of Legolas, and felt themselves forced back towards the forest border. 

Aragorn raised his sword, his hand on Frodo's shoulder, ushering the Hobbit behind him, nearer to the trees. "Quickly! Get beneath the trees!" But as he turned towards the safety of the forest, he staggered, almost falling to his knees. Gimli moved to help him, the arrow that had grazed Aragorn's leg trampled under his feet, and he caught his friend's shoulder. He sucked in a breath, realising that the first group of Orcs had not been the ones who had fired the arrow. 

Raising his eyes to the forest border they had been making for, it seemed to the Dwarf's frantic eyes that the silver trunks of the mallorns had suddenly grown black and thick. Twisted, moving shapes coming closer and closer. The Orcs were closing their trap from both sides! How could this have happened? Orcs came from the left and right of the path ahead, closing off their only road to the wood.

Gimli tightened his grip on his axe, turning his back protectively on the Hobbits, facing outwards. But it was hopeless. Gimli saw that the sun had slipped below the horizon, yet more Orcs would be spilling from the mines in pursuit. How cruel, he thought, that they had been filled with hope after escaping the mines, only to perish here in sight of safety!

With Faramir and Pippin injured, and Aragorn hindered by the fresh arrow wound, there would be no escape! The Orcs would surely destroy them. But Gimli was determined to take as many of the foul creatures with him as possible!

With a mighty shout, he hacked at the first Orc that came in range, feeling the strange weight of the axe he had found in Moria after his own had been shattered. It was a heavy blade, but true, and Gimli relished the sound of metal slicing through flesh as the Orc fell before him. More came, enough to satisfy even Gimli's thirst to spill blood. On every side the creatures pressed in upon them, attacking with a vengeance that could only come from the need for revenge.

With a wide sweep of his weapon, Gimli tried to take in the positions of the others. Legolas was back to back with him. He was resorting to his knives as the Orcs moved closer. Faramir was to his right, wielding Gandalf's sword, as his own had been lost in the mines. With the eye of a skilled warrior, Gimli could see that a blade of such breadth was not the man's preferred weapon. Aragorn was to his left, fighting with a desperation Gimli had rarely seen. 

Gimli could almost feel the breath of the creatures who attacked them now as the circle grew smaller and the space for fighting all but disappeared.

As he plunged his axe into the neck of another black creature, he heard shouts from behind and the harsh sound of Orc voices.

He turned in time to see the sword smashed from Faramir's hand as the man knelt on the grass, holding his left arm to his chest. One of the Orcs had Merry by the arm, and was pressing a knife to his throat. Gimli swallowed, feeling an angry flush rise to his face, hiding his fear. In another moment, Aragorn's sword was lowered to the grass with a soft thud, followed quickly by the weapons of the remaining Hobbits.

Gimli cast a side-long glance at Legolas, seeing what he would do. The Elf lowered his bow very slowly, allowing it to be taken into the hands of an Orc. Gimli followed very reluctantly, making the Orc wrench the weapon from his grasp.

Then as the Orcs laughed, a harsh, evil sound, Gimli saw Legolas wince. He made a note that if they ever escaped this nightmare he would think up something witty to say about the Elf's sensitive hearing.

The Orc holding Merry released him slowly, letting the Hobbit stumble back to Pippin, Sam and Frodo, very relieved. The Orc then lifted its rusted sword, disregarding the Hobbits as if they were little more than children. It motioned to Legolas with the tip of his sword, forcing the Elf to step away from his defensive position before the two men and to stand with Gimli.

Gimli tried to shake off the Orcs who grabbed his arms, then yelled out loud when the large Orc swung its boot into Aragorn's shin, bringing the man to his knees. Gimli tried again to escape as he saw the blood that trickled from Aragorn's lip where he had bitten it to stifle a cry. The blow to his shin must have been in the same place the arrow had struck him. And the Orc knew it.

It grinned down at the two men, shifting its sword from one to the other as it spoke, "You longhairs didn't expect this!"


	12. Under the eaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 25 - Under the eaves**

It was a starry night above the woods of Lothlorien, but the hulking forms of the Orcs impeded his view of the beautiful trees. Aragorn spat blood from his mouth as an Orc pulled his arms behind his back and tied them with strong rope. Being on his knees made his wounded leg pain savagely; he could barely formulate coherent thoughts.

Turning his head slightly, he took in the positions of his companions. The Hobbits were slightly behind and to the left, their faces pale in the moonlight with horror and fear. Aragorn cringed, and wished they did not have to see him like this. At least, he thought, the Orcs seemed to have no interest or knowledge of the ring. In this there was a faint hope.

Faramir was in the same position as himself, on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. The man had his head down, his hair shielding his face from Aragorn's gaze. By singling out the two humans of the Fellowship, Aragorn gathered the Orcs must have seen which one of their party had wielded the power of Wizards against the Balrog, though they seemed unable to distinguish between himself and Faramir.

Legolas and Gimli were being held beside him. Gimli's face was red and scrunched in anger, and the Dwarf still struggled against the Orcs that held his arms. Legolas stood very straight and tall, his face betraying nothing. Suddenly, as the moonlight slanted in that direction, Aragorn caught a glimmer of something sharp concealed within the sleeve of Legolas' cloak.

Aragorn swallowed in alarm. He would have been relieved, if it were not for the crossbow directed at his friend's back. Aragorn could only pray he would make no sudden movements.

Aragorn quickly redirected his attention to the Orc that stood before them, shifting its sword between the faces of the two men.

"You longhairs didn't expect this!" it grinned, "but we tracked you all the way. You thought you'd escaped into that cursed wood, but the Orcs of Moria never allow the death of a leader go un-avenged!"

Aragorn grimaced. He knew something had been wrong. Why had he not heeded his own feelings?

"One of you struck down our leader! For that you will watch your companions perish before you!" The Orc was overconfident, obsessed with its own power to give orders. Aragorn suspected it had recently been promoted to the position it now occupied, and suspected many things had changed in the mines after the death of the Balrog.

Faramir was obviously thinking the same thing, and muttered under his breath, "should he not be grateful? If we had not destroyed the creature he..."

Unfortunately the Orc overheard. Aragorn flinched as the hilt of the Orc's weapon struck Faramir across the side of the head.

"Which one of you did it?" the Orc asked, shifting its attention back to Aragorn. The ranger kept his face impassive. He knew two things. One, all knowledge of the ring must remain hidden at all costs, even if it meant sacrificing their lives and leaving the Elves of Lorien to discover what Frodo had carried. Two, as long as the Orcs remained at a loss as to the identity of the one who had felled the Balrog, there was hope. Somehow Aragorn could not stop himself from believing help would come.

"Look at this," one of the Orcs to his right said, bending down over something hidden behind the long grass. Aragorn strained his neck to see in the darkness, fearing the worst. The Leader of the Orcs moved to the spot, bending down to recover the object. As its callused fingers made contact, a small blaze of light streaked upwards. The Orc swore viciously and pulled away.

Now Aragorn knew the identity of the object. It was not idly named Foe-hammer, the bane of the Goblin kind. Gandalf's ancient blade had severed more Orc necks than Aragorn cared to think of. He could see it now, to Faramir's right, glowing slightly in the dusky light.

The Orc turned back towards Aragorn and Faramir, triumphant in its discovery. It noted Anduril, resting on the grass before Aragorn, with a smile. Making a silent sign to one of the other Orcs, it moved to Aragorn's side, and lifted its sword so it rested beneath the ranger's chin. Aragorn repressed a shudder, and tried to block the cries of dismay from Pippin and Merry from his ears.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Faramir hauled to his feet and brought around to face the fellowship. Everything was moving so swiftly he could not even think of a way to stall his execution!

"You were the one who used wizard powers to crack the bridge?" the Orc asked Faramir, never letting the blade waver from Aragorn's throat. Faramir was given no chance to answer as the Orc rushed on. "Then you shall see your companions die before you!"

Aragorn held his breath and briefly considered closing his eyes. He saw images in that moment - Elrond, his foster father, his brothers, the fellowship, Frodo with the ring, the white tower of Minas Tirith, and lastly, Arwen . . .

There was a moment of indecision, as if the fate itself was choosing its course. Then the blade was lifted . . .

Suddenly, Aragorn felt the hold on his arms loosen. Without thinking he threw his body to the side, hearing the blade cut deep into the earth where he had been kneeling. The blade stuck fast, and it seemed to Aragorn as if the leader of the Orcs was leaning over him, leering closer. But in truth the Orc had lost the power to hold its sword, and Aragorn could barely believe his eyes when the creature toppled forwards almost upon him, blood leaking from the arrow wound in the back of its neck. There was a guttural cry from his left, and Aragorn whipped his head around to see Legolas retrieve his concealed arrow from the dead Orc that had been holding him.

The Orcs were yelling in fear now. The one holding Gimli fell with an arrow to the throat, and Faramir's captor let the man sink to his knees as it too fell with an arrow to the heart.

The stench of death was now thick upon the air, the cool grass beneath their feet stained with blackish blood. But Aragorn hardly noticed, and could only rest his chin upon his breast in relief as Legolas swiftly cut through the ropes holding his arms.

Then, as Legolas moved away to aid Faramir, Aragorn looked up. He saw a figure standing over him. In the dusky light it almost seemed to glow; the golden light on the horizon highlighting the Elf's blond hair. After a moment Aragorn recognised the Elf, and forced himself to his feet.

"Son of Arathorn," the Elf said formally, extending a strong arm for the man's support.

"Haldir," Aragorn breathed. "Well met, indeed! But how come you here, so far from the gates?"

"Yrch," the Elf replied, a frown appearing on his brow. "Times have grown dangerous, and there is now a need to watch the borders of this land."

"It is well for us that you were near! We are forever in your debt."

Haldir dismissed the comment without emotion. "We will take you to the safety of the trees. There we can treat your wounds."

Aragorn had hardly noticed his leg up till then, but all of a sudden he felt a wave of pain rush over him. He tightened his grip on Haldir's arm, and the Elf looked earnestly into his face.

"Come."

It was some minutes before Aragorn noticed the other two Elves who now accompanied them. Both were similar in looks to Haldir, yet seemingly younger in years. "My brothers, Rumil and Orophin," Haldir explained. "They came with me to guard the borders, though they speak little of your tongue."

Aragorn regarded them for a moment, one helping Faramir, and the other walking close behind Gimli, as if suspecting the Dwarf to turn on them at any moment.

Someway into the fringe of trees, Haldir stopped. "We can go no further tonight, and I am undecided about our course."

The reason for this, of course, was Gimli's presence. Aragorn sighed in frustration as Legolas argued with the three elves over the Dwarf's necessary part in the Fellowship. He was feeling rather light headed, and felt strangely cold all over. In the midst of the discussion Frodo came up to him.

"You seem pale, Aragorn. Are you unwell?" Aragorn tried to smile reassuringly, but a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and his vision was blurring. It was many years since he had been inflicted this way, but he knew the signs of a poisoned wound.

Frodo seemed to be able to sense this new danger and the Hobbit called Legolas over to see to his friend. Aragorn protested to being fussed over, but appreciated the Hobbit's concern. He felt his vision growing darker, and stumbled just in time to have Legolas catch him. He felt himself lowered to the ground as a cold numbness came over his body.


	13. In high places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 26 - In high places**

Sam could not sleep. Hobbits were not made for sleeping so high off the ground! It was early morning, by his reckoning, but the three Hobbits beside him were still sleeping soundly. He turned over for the hundredth time that night as he tried to block the fear of falling, and the concern for his companions from his mind.

But it was no use. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Frodo's pale face, then Aragorn's, and could not help fretting over the consequences of the Orc attack. He could almost feel the presence of the Orcs near to him, although the Elf, Haldir, and his silent brothers had helped destroy all of them. He had been so afraid when the Orcs had come upon them. He had been afraid for Frodo, that the Orcs could have discovered what he was carrying, for Faramir, when the Orcs had found Gandalf's sword, and for Strider, who had come so close to death that Sam could hardly believe the three Elves had saved them in time. There was also a feeling inside him that he should have done more to help defend the Fellowship. Although he had fought along with all the rest, he felt guilty that the Hobbits always had to be protected by the stronger members of the company.

Sam opened his eyes and glanced over at the Elf who sat guarding them in the corner of the tree-house. The faint light of morning shone upon his golden hair and seemed almost to make him glow. Sam breathed out slowly, feeling slightly comforted by the reassuring presence.

He wondered how the others fared in the next tree. He was terribly worried about Strider. The strong image he had formed in his mind of their leader was crumbling with the thought that Strider might die. What if the Elves could not cure the poison in time?

'I will go and find out,' Sam said to himself. Now with a strong purpose in mind, Sam felt suddenly more sure of himself. He scrambled out from the blanket covering him, and being as quiet as was possible for a Hobbit, he crawled towards the place where he could let down the ladder.

Fumbling with the fine rope of the ladder, Sam grunted in frustration as his stubby fingers became tangled in the cords. He jumped suddenly as he sensed a presence beside him.

Orophin quickly took the rope from Sam's hands and, with nimble fingers, untangled the mess Sam had created and let the ladder fall with a gentle swoosh to the forest floor below. Sam nodded his thanks to the Elf, once again feeling awe at the smoothness of every action. He awkwardly shifted one foot onto the unsteady support and began to climb slowly downwards. He was very aware of the difference between his own movements and those of the Elf watching his descent. He felt heavy and clumsy in comparison but knew in his heart that he was a Hobbit who belonged with both feet on the earth, however much he admired those who did not.

He sighed with relief as his feet touched the solid carpet of leaves. The wood was beautiful in the soft morning light, the sun illuminating the golden leaves like glowing insects hovering above. Sam thought of his own garden back home in the Shire and sighed. For a moment he imagined how one of these trees would look if he could somehow bring one back with him and plant it beside the lilies near the garden path. It would light up the whole garden! 'What a perfect place,'he thought, 'to ask Rosie to become . . .' But that was getting ahead of himself. His object now was to help Mr Frodo finish the quest, and he could not think beyond it.

A slight cough to his left alerted him to the closeness of Gimli. The Dwarf was leaning against the trunk of one of the Mallorn trees, his pipe protruding from his mouth. From the irregular pattern of the smoke ascending from the Dwarf's pipe, and his own experience on such matters, Sam concluded Gimli was annoyed about something.

Another abstract design rose from the pipe, Gimli grunted a greeting to Sam.

"How is Strider?" Sam asked, hoping the Dwarf could save him an additional trip up the trunk of another confounded tree.

Gimli grunted again, lifting one hand to rub his temple. "You overestimate the place I hold in this company, if you believe those... those Elves would give me a plain answer to any such question."

Sam was quiet for a moment, wondering whether it was wise to further aggravate a disgruntled Dwarf. But in the end his curiosity won out, "What happened?"

"Sly looks and silence are all I can get out of those, those..," The Dwarf paused as he searched for the right word.

"Those what?"

Sam looked up, startled by the voice that seemed to be coming from the branches of the tree. A moment later Sam started as Legolas dropped, cat-like, from an overhanging bough.

Gimli went slightly red and concentrated his attention to the careful constructing a perfect smoke-ring.

"What were you discussing, my friends?" the Elf asked innocently, rising to his feet. As he asked, he stared hard at the Dwarf.

"We were merely discussing the overwhelming hospitality offered to us by your Elven friends," Gimli muttered, not raising his eyes. Sam smiled slightly at the way the Dwarf wrinkled his nose at the thought of Haldir and his brothers.

Legolas smiled, turning away slightly so that Sam almost missed the motion. But Gimli saw all too well.

"You may find something amusing about your little private conversations about me, Elf. But if I am not wanted, then I will find shelter elsewhere."

"You do not understand," Legolas said, growing quickly serious. "The Elves of Lorien have lived long in seclusion, shunning outsiders. But their grievances against your race have festered, as they have in Mirkwood, and now their laws forbid entry to any of your kind."

Gimli's face grew less agitated but became creased with concern.

"I spoke to Haldir and his brothers on your behalf, and they have agreed to take us to meet with the Lady."

Sam did not really know who the Lady was, but even the mention of her name sent little shivers up his spine. There was magic in this wood, he could feel it right down in his toes. And he did not blame Gimli for not wishing to go any further.

Gimli had opened his mouth to apologise for accusing the Elf of talking behind his back, but from the look on Legolas' face, it was not necessary.

"You may have gained passage, my friend," the Elf began, "but I pray you to be prudent. I am charged with answering for your actions, and your Dwarvish humour may cause offence."

Gimli snorted in amusement. "If I must suffer the companionship of those three. . ." He gestured to the trees above where Sam supposed Haldir and his brothers were residing, "I can at least amuse myself and others who have enough wit to understand my amusing tales."

Sam decided to break up the conversation before it could get any more intense. "Mr Legolas, sir, I was wondering about Strider. Is he..?" he trailed off, not wishing to voice his fears.

The Elf pressed his lips tightly together, and Sam grew concerned. "The Elves have done what they can for Aragorn, Sam. But now it is up to him to fight the poison."

"Could I go up and see him?" Sam asked, suddenly thinking back over all the times Aragorn had risked his life to save them.

Without answering him, Legolas looked up into the branches and spoke some soft words Sam could not catch. The rope ladder slithered down the trunk, and Legolas held it steady as Sam began to pull himself up.

"It's very kind of you, Samwise, to leave me in the company of this . . . this . . ." Gimli spluttered for words, Legolas was the last person with whom he wanted to be left.

"Elf," Legolas finished simply.

As Sam disappeared into the golden leaves above, he could hear the Dwarf grumbling louder than ever.

When his head popped over the edge of the flet, a slender hand grasped him under the arm and hoisted him up to his feet. The flet was slightly larger than the one he and the other Hobbits had slept upon, though the four bodies filling the space made it feel cramped.

Haldir welcomed him as he steadied himself. He tried not to look at the edge of the flet where the lack of a barrier could cause a long fall for a Hobbit such as himself. Sam glanced around quickly, searching for Aragorn.

The other of Haldir's brothers, Rúmil, was crouched beside the sleeping form of Faramir, carefully examining the burn marks on the man's back. Sam cringed when he saw the wounds and wondered whether he would ever be brave enough to bear such pain for another.

He then turned his attention to the other side of the flet where Aragorn lay under a thin cloak. Sam approached nervously. Now that it had come to it, he could not think of anything to say! He knelt down and almost cried out in surprise when the man's eyes suddenly opened.

Sam could see the pain in the grey eyes and saw too the paleness of the usually sun-browned skin.

"Sam," Aragorn whispered. "Did you sleep well?" A small smile tugged the corners of the ranger's mouth at the sight of the bold Sam looking so uncomfortable.

He nodded mutely. Then, uncomfortable in the silence that followed, he added, "But Hobbits weren't made for trees, if you take my meaning. The Elves are very helpful and all, with a nice large supper to keep Mr Merry and Mr Pippin satisfied, but we're used to having two feet firmly planted on the ground . . ." he trailed off, realising he had been rambling.

Strider had closed eyes again, and Sam felt despair creep into his thoughts. They had already lost Gandalf to Saruman, they could not lose Aragorn too!

Haldir and Rúmil were conversing quietly together near where Faramir was resting, and although he could not understand a word, Sam thought he could guess what they were saying.

"We're going to have to move on, aren't we?" he asked, breaking into their conversation. Both looked at him strangely for a moment, then Haldir smiled.

"You are very perceptive, Master Samwise, and indeed you are correct. We have done what we can for the son of Arathorn, yet I fear it will not be enough to save his life. We must take him to the Lady."

"But, begging your pardon, can he even walk in the state he's in?"

"He must," Haldir replied blankly.

Sam felt his face grow red and hot in anger at the Elf's apparent unconcern about Aragorn's welfare. He turned his back, and moved towards the ladder, determined to have Legolas talk to the Elves about moving their friend.

Sam looked back once more into the trees where Orophin had disappeared. The Elf was to stay and guard the border while the rest of them travelled on. Frodo looked back also, though Sam suspected his friend's purpose lay rather in catching the last beautiful sounds of the Nimrodel. Sam was not so enchanted by the stream as his companions, and he had a strong feeling this was due to his aversion to swimming and anything it involved, namely water.

Sam turned to the path ahead, watching the slow progression as Legolas and Haldir supported Aragorn along the leafy path. The ranger had been drifting in and out of consciousness, and Sam felt guilty that perhaps the last words he would ever speak to the man would be about his selfish fear of heights.

It seemed to Sam as if many of the others were thinking along the same lines. All were silent. Even Pippin who could usually think of something to say at the worst of times was staring blankly ahead.

It was mid morning when Haldir led them from the path, weaving between the trees until they came to the river. The very sight of it froze Sam's blood, for he knew they were going to have to cross.

"There is someone on the other bank," Legolas said suddenly, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

"He is one of my people," Haldir explained. "He will help us cross the river. Hold Aragorn, if you will, Legolas." Haldir shifted his half of Aragorn's weight so that Legolas could support the ranger on his own. Then the Elf let out a low whistle, like that of a bird, and Sam saw at once the Elf who suddenly appeared from among the trees. Haldir lifted a light coil of rope, made from the same material as the rope ladders, and cast it out over the stream to be neatly caught by the Elf on the opposite bank.

Haldir then proceeded to attach two more ropes, higher than the first and about the height of a Hobbit, at either side of the original.

"Surely," Sam spluttered, "you don't expect us to walk across that!"

Haldir smiled, amused. "It is your choice, Master Samwise. You can walk, or you can swim."


	14. Lothlorien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 27 - Lothlorien**

He woke to the sound of water and soft voices. They swirled above and around him, invading his foggy senses and drawing him slowly from unconsciousness.

He had been dreaming of Rivendell. The beautiful valley had become so much a part of who he was that his thoughts strayed back there when he himself could not. He had left behind many from whom it was painful to be parted. Elrond, his guide and father, Elladin and Elrohir, his brothers and eternal friends, and deepest in his heart, where her memory touched him ever, was Arwen.

Awakening to pain and confusion tainted Aragorn's thoughts with the possibility of death. He was reminded bitterly of his own mortality and the great divide between himself and the immortal ones he had left behind.

A cool hand was laid upon his brow and a soft voice spoke close to him. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself coughing instead. The violent spasm left him gasping and weak, and he felt himself pushed backwards to lie flat once more.

"Do not try to speak," the voice said, "But Aragorn, listen to me."

He recognised the voice as Legolas', and even in his current state he sensed a tone of urgency in the Elf's words.

"We have come to the river crossing. You must be strong now, and trust me."

For the first time Aragorn forced his heavy eyes open. Colours swirled above, forming and reforming into familiar faces. The strange numbness in his body intensified as his gaze fell on Legolas' face.

"Welcome back, my friend," the Elf smiled, helping him to raise his head so that he could see better.

Aragorn focused on the figure behind Legolas and noticed the grim expression on the other Elf's face.

"Can he do this?" Haldir asked Legolas, looking down at the Ranger on the ground.

"I must," Aragorn grimaced. He had to be strong for the rest of the Fellowship. He knew how the Elves crossed rivers when they wished to leave no trace of boat or bridge and knew also that the rest of the Fellowship would fear to cross this way. It was his duty to lead by example. If he could cross, wounded as he was, then the others would feel more confident when their turns came.

He leaned heavily on Legolas as he was raised to his feet. And he almost fell as his blood, weak with the Orcs' poison, rushed to his head and made him feel faint. He stood a moment, his eyes firmly closed against the nausea and dizziness that was rushing though him. Then he forced his feet to move towards the bank, still allowing his friend to bear his weight.

He vaguely heard Gimli speaking to the Elves and Sam muttering to himself. But he had to focus on the task ahead. He stared blearily down at the thin cord stretching across the water. It seemed as though it stretched all the distance and beyond. Legolas' arm tightened upon his chest, and he knew all he had to do was position his feet and his friend would support his weight. Unsteadily, he moved his right foot towards the gently swaying rope. But he had misjudged the timing and his boot slipped on the side of the cord, threatening to send him plunging into the fast-flowing waters. He kicked out, feeling himself falling...

The arm around his chest dragged him back, and he felt his feet touch the edge of the bank. He tried to ignore the gasps of the Fellowship behind him as he steeled himself for another attempt.

This time he focused entirely on the thin rope, trusting Legolas with his balance and strength. His boot landed squarely on the rope and shook violently until he could compose himself to move on.

It was a slow ordeal, not only for Aragorn and Legolas, who had one hand around Aragorn and the other on one of the side ropes for balance, but also for those watching. Aragorn heard shouts of encouragement from both Merry and Pippin, and even a polite comment from Haldir about his determination. But when at last his foot touched the solid earth on the other bank, he sunk to ground once more, knowing that his fate no longer rested in his own hands.

* * *

Gold light passed above him, mingling with the grey shades of his closed eyes. Voices spoke near him, though everything seemed far off and muffled. It was like a pleasant dream, where fear and shadow faded and all was familiar and comforting. He was moving, a pleasant swaying motion.

He opened his eyes once, though was unsure whether he had. More swirling gold above, and a numb feeling of sleep spreading through his tired body. There was no pain now, only light and rest. No conscious thought disturbed him, save an obscure feeling of loss when he moved his fingers and found neither hilt of sword nor shaft of bow.

A hand gripped his own, squeezing gently with a pressure from which he did not shrink. A soft voice spoke to him, urging him not to fall asleep. But the numbness had risen to his chest, like a weight pushing his consciousness out of reach. The poison had drained his strength to fight it, and he relented. Then a smell reached him, dragging him slowly from the darkness and into the light. It was a familiar smell, though at that moment he could not place it. Aragorn realised he was no longer moving. He forced his eyelids open, squinting into the golden light. He felt clean. It was so long since he had had a bath that he could barely remember what it felt like. A shape appeared above him, and he had to blink several times to believe what he saw.

"Awake, son of Arathorn," the gentle voice said, and it seemed to Aragorn as if she had not spoken aloud, rather that the words were inside his mind.

"My Lady," he began, trying to raise himself to his elbows.

Galadriel laid a gentle but firm hand on his chest and pushed him back down. "Now is the time for rest. Your companions have waited long for you to wake, would you disappoint them now by exhausting yourself too soon?" As she spoke, Galadriel gestured to something out of his sight.

With an effort, Aragorn raised himself enough to see the sleeping form of Frodo curled in a chair at the side of the chamber. Aragorn sighed, feeling as helpless as a child but took heed of the Lady's advice and resigned himself to rest.

The next time he woke, Aragorn found Legolas beside his bed, and no sign of either Frodo or Galadriel.

"How long?" he asked his friend, relieved his voice was returning to its normal quality.

"Four days and three nights since you were brought here," Legolas told him, ignoring the look of surprise on Aragorn's face. "Although time is hard to reckon in Lothlorien, it seems as if it stands still, or flows too swiftly to be measured by days and nights."

Aragorn assented. He knew what the Elf was saying and knew also that the Fellowship must be careful not to lose track of the time they spent in the haven of the Elves.

"How is everyone?"

"Everyone is healing like yourself. Though I believe some will take longer than others." Legolas looked grave for a moment before continuing with a slight smile, "Merry and Pippin are happy to have found a place with a bath and fine food."

Aragorn also smiled. He was strangely relieved at this. He had been worried about Pippin since the terrible experience in the Mines and was glad to hear the Hobbit was returning to normal.

Legolas suddenly turned his head to the doorway. When he turned back to Aragorn he was smiling mischievously. "You should be glad of all the rest you have taken," Looking at the door once more and rising to his feet he said, "You are going to need it."

Aragorn glared at Legolas as the loud voices of the Hobbits rose up to them from the stairs below. "What if I pretended to be asleep?"

"Then I would just have to tell them you are not."

Aragorn sunk back on the pillow in defeat as the two eager Hobbits burst into the room.

"Strider! You're awake! Why didn't you tell us?" Merry looked up at Legolas, but the Elf was already backing out of the doorway.

"I think I hear Gimli calling. He might have got himself stuck in a tree. Farewell friends, and Pippin? Merry...?"

The two Hobbits looked up at the tall Elf.

"Do not tire Aragorn out before the others can see him." Legolas slipped out of the door smiling, and Aragorn had to stifle a groan.

"I told you he'd be awake today, didn't I, Merry?" Pippin grinned, sitting himself down on the side of the bed.

"You did not! You said... Well it doesn't matter now anyway."

"You should have seen me cross the river, Strider. I didn't look down once and walked all the way across." Pippin was grinning triumphantly. Aragorn, despite his exhaustion, appreciated that the Hobbits felt the need to show their courage to him.

"I am sure you did, Pippin," he said, trying to sound impressed. But the whirl of voices and the feeling of tiredness through his body caused him to close his eyes. He hardly noticed himself falling asleep once more.


	15. Divided loyalties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 28 - Divided loyalties**

A light shower of rain weaved its way down through the treetops, causing the golden leaves of the Mellyrn to shine with renewed splendour.

Legolas shook his head slightly, shaking free the gentle drops that clung to his hair. He ran swiftly, weaving between the trunks of younger saplings, until he found a thicker canopy under which to take shelter.

He stood then, taking in his surroundings more absent-mindedly than usual. Disturbing thoughts continued to flicker across his conscience, denying him the rest he needed.

He was grateful his Elven heritage gave him the freedom to wander Lothlorien at will, not being burdened by the constant stares and hushed whispers the others of the Fellowship attracted. He knew some them were uncomfortable with being treated as strangers, Gimli and Faramir in particular. Legolas suspected this was because they both held high positions in their own lands, and were used to being treated with respect. Pippin and Merry seemed actually to enjoy the attention, and even Sam, though he remained by Frodo's side most of the time, had several times been drawn into conversation with the Elves.

Legolas himself had not seen much of the Fellowship in the past days. Apart from the time he spent by Aragorn's bedside, waiting for, yet dreading, the time he would awaken, he had tried to find peace to think of what he would say to his friend about his encounter with the creature Gollum in the mines.

He shuddered involuntarily as the words Aragorn himself had spoken at the Council of Elrond so many months ago came rushing back.

_I fear he would do great mischief if he were let to go his own way._

And yet Legolas was unsure whether he himself believed Gollum should have been let to live. Mithrandir thought so, and Frodo also. Yet in his own mind he could foresee only grief and danger if things were left as they were.

The rain had slowed to a dismal trickle, and Legolas forced himself to move on. He would tell Aragorn everything now that his friend had almost recovered. All he had kept secret in the mines would now have to be told, even if it destroyed his friend's faith in him. For Legolas knew that had he really been determined to kill the creature, he would have succeeded despite Frodo's intervention.

But it did not matter. All that mattered was to make sure Aragorn understood the situation and was prepared.

He turned his course towards Caras Galadhon, where the Lady had requested their presence that afternoon. Legolas would have to be swift if he was to speak with Aragorn beforehand.

The rain seemed to have stopped completely now, and Legolas took a moment to dry his bow, consciously delaying the inevitable.

It was some time before he came to the canopy the Elves had constructed for the Fellowship. It was set within the courtyard beneath the room in which Aragorn had recovered. As Legolas passed through the trees bordering the space he heard voices.

He slowed his pace and tried to catch sight of the speakers. He was quick to recognise Aragorn's distinctive voice and after further scrutiny saw the other was Faramir.

The man of Gondor had his back to him, and Legolas quickly shifted out of Aragorn's line of sight as his friend paced back and forth. Legolas could see Faramir was nervous by the way he constantly twisted his hands behind him. Aragorn also seemed worried.

"It was not merely to see to your recovery that I wished to speak with you," Faramir said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "From my studies and interest in maps I know the lay of this land perhaps more than others in Gondor, and so I perceive that once we leave this land we will have to make a choice."

"The east bank or the west, an easy decision it would be for a man without a sense of duty or a conscience." Aragorn smiled wryly, but Legolas could see the worry and doubt that lay behind the black humour. "You are correct in that we must decide, and now that I am well enough to dwell on it, I cannot see clearly what Gandalf hoped for this moment."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Legolas was drawn into his own thoughts to wonder what his choice would be if he were in Aragorn's place. The future king of Gondor had a duty to his people, but also to the ring bearer. A hard choice indeed!

"I did not intend to speak on the choice ahead," Faramir said. "Although I greatly desire to see my home once more, I will follow you, as will we all. If the Fellowship of the ring falls, so does the White City."

Aragorn began pacing again, this time coming further to the side so Legolas could now see both faces. Aragorn's brow was creased in worry, perhaps pondering the fact that he was not the only one who had difficult decisions to resolve.

"You have left the city in good hands," Aragorn murmured, perhaps trying to be comforting. "Your father and brother will guard her well til your return."

Faramir winced, though Aragorn did not seem to notice.

"My father is a good leader," Faramir began haltingly, almost as if he was saying it more to convince himself than for Aragorn, "and my brother would have been a great example to the people when he came into the Stewardship."

Legolas finally realised the full implications of Aragorn's coming to Minas Tirith. If Faramir was as loyal to Aragorn as he claimed, he would have to stand against his family and attempt to convince them to willingly give up their ascendancy over Gondor. Legolas could not believe such a sacrifice would ever be made.

Aragorn had once spoken to Legolas about Faramir's father. And though he spoke without bitterness or mistrust, Legolas perceived much darker implications of the Steward of Gondor's character than Aragorn would ever say aloud. He often wondered why Aragorn so implicitly trusted anyone so near in blood to such a man as Denethor. Legolas could not question his friend's choice of allies, for certainly Faramir was brave and loyal to his friends. Legolas only wished Aragorn would take more care over who he trusted to support him. He had no doubt that when put to the first test of loyalty this man would forsake Aragorn in favour of his own father.

"I know what troubles you, Faramir," Aragorn said gravely, "And I also know your father."

Faramir looked bemused.

"Denethor is a proud ruler of whom it would take great lengths to prove such a worth as mine. And though you speak in admiration of your brother I perceive he is also a proud man and loyal to his father above all."

Faramir nodded. "I only wished to warn you that if at last you come to the gates of your city, you may find them barred against you."

Legolas pressed his lips together in disgust. Were men so foolish and proud that they would refuse to accept the one man who could save their lands and restore peace?

"I appreciate your concern," Aragorn said after a moment, "but fear not. I would never force you to decide where your loyalties lie. If ever I enter the citadel of Minas Tirith, it will be by the will of the people and the grace of the Steward."

Legolas wondered whether Aragorn knew just how much he was promising.

"I will leave you to your rest," Faramir said quietly. "You should recover your strength for the council."

"Until then," Aragorn inclined his head before turning to the curved stair that led up to his room, leaning heavily on the carved banister.

Legolas watched silently until Aragorn had ascended half the stair. He would follow presently. Perhaps the privacy of Aragorn's chamber would help unburden him of his worries. Legolas rose from his crouch, and started slightly when he realised Faramir was walking directly towards him.

Legolas saw his chance to ask the man the question that had been burning in his mind ever since Aragorn had spoken aloud of loyalties. Slowing his breathing, Legolas waited silently behind a tree until the man was nearly upon him.

Then he stepped onto the path. He caught the slight intake of breath that proved he had taken the man by surprise.

"Legolas." Faramir breathed out slowly, and Legolas noticed the confusion in the other's eyes. "I did not expect to meet anyone."

Now that it had come to the point, Legolas hardly knew how to begin. His suspicions of what the man could be always seemed to fall away when he looked the other in the eyes. Sincerity. Legolas found it difficult to distrust Faramir, but knowing of his father, and men in general, he had taken it upon himself to make sure Aragorn would not be betrayed.

He licked his lips uneasily, wondering how he could begin the conversation without resorting to open accusations.

"I wished to thank you," he began at last, noting the way Faramir raised an eyebrow in confusion. "For not betraying my trust over what we discussed in the mines."

Faramir smiled slightly, "You said then you did not trust me."

Legolas said nothing.

"Ah," came the short reply. "After all we have accomplished as a fellowship, still you cannot believe I would see my father step down and have Aragorn take his place."

Legolas felt a hot flush creep into his face. How could Faramir have known he had been watching? "Aragorn said he would never ask you to place your loyalty... never make you choose."

"And you wish to know where I would stand." It was a statement, and once again Legolas said nothing in reply.

"Aragorn is fortunate to have such a loyal friend watching his back," Faramir was smiling again, but Legolas did not miss the effort to change the subject.

Moving faster than any man could follow, Legolas shoved Faramir against the tree he had previously been hiding behind, holding him there with his forearm across the man's chest.

"Do not take me for a fool," he whispered harshly, suddenly realising they might be overheard by Elves or others of the Fellowship. Faramir made no move to escape from the Elf's grasp, and Legolas felt slightly guilty as he noticed Faramir grimace from the wounds on his back as they were crushed against the tree. He loosed his hold slightly. "Aragorn would not believe you would betray him, but I cannot beleive any man would hand such power freely to another."

"The power is not mine to give or retain," Faramir replied steadily.

"You are your father's son." Legolas thought he saw Faramir wince slightly and knew himself to be on target. "Would you? Would you really stand against your father, your brother, to support a wanderer from the north?"

Their eyes met. Legolas could not read the other's face. Sadness? Determination?

"Legolas? Faramir?"

The voice startled them both, and Legolas felt Faramir start through the arm that still held the man to the tree. He released him quickly.

"Frodo!" Legolas looked down at the Hobbit, wondering how he had been able to sneak up on them.

"You must excuse me," Frodo said, moving to step past the two taller figures, "I did not mean to interrupt."

"You did not interrupt anything, Frodo," Faramir said, meeting Legolas' eyes with a hard stare. "We were just talking."

It was almost as though Faramir wanted Frodo to suspect something, and indeed the Hobbit turned on both of them a look that held both understanding and regret. Legolas inwardly cringed under the Hobbit's honest gaze. This halfling carried the burden for them all, and that was why they were here. Legolas had been looking too far ahead, trying to prevent the turns of fate from taking their course. But his efforts would be futile, and he knew it now. Unless the Fellowship completed their quest there would be no future to worry about.

"If our discussion is finished, Legolas," Faramir said, bowing his head to each of them in turn, "I will prepare myself for the council."

Legolas watched him go, feeling dazed and confused.

Frodo looked up at him, as if sensing the Elf's distress. "Why is it you do not trust him?"

Legolas dropped to one knee, as he had seen Aragorn do on occasions, so their eyes could meet at the same level. "I will not see either you or Aragorn hurt."

Frodo put his hand on the Elf's shoulder and spoke with such conviction and such belief in the truth of his words that Legolas found it hard not to believe them. "You need not fear, you know. Faramir is alright."

Legolas did not know what to say. He wished to believe it but had always been slow to trust. Until that time came, Legolas would not let his guard down.

"I am sorry," he answered haltingly. "I'm sure you are right, I was merely overreacting."

"There is no need to apologise," Frodo assured him. "We all have burdens to carry, some greater than others. You have been so strong for us in the past weeks, you deserve now to rest."

Legolas felt terrible that Frodo should be worrying about him when clearly the Hobbit was under more strain than any of them. He tried to smile and lighten the mood, "Elves do not need sleep."

"I did not speak of sleep. Perhaps you should speak with Aragorn. I will see you at the council." Frodo moved away, leaving Legolas kneeling on the soft grass.


	16. The lady of the Golden Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 29 - The lady of the Golden Wood**

The ground seemed to shift beneath him as Faramir turned his back on Legolas and Frodo. The forest floor tipped, and the trees lurched closer. He tried to appear unaffected by the pain ripping across his shoulders, but once out of their sight he slumped against the nearest tree, breathing hard. Closing his eyes he focused his mind on the rough bark beneath his fingers until the nausea faded. He was relieved that there was no one nearby to see him in such a state and cursed his own weakness.

Breathing slowly he thought back over the conversation he had held with Legolas and realised with some satisfaction that the Elf had never received the answer to his question. Since leaving Rivendell, Faramir had tried not to ask himself whether he would have the strength to stand with Aragorn against his family... for he thought he already knew the answer.

"Faramir?"

His eyes flew open, and he turned swiftly, ignoring the burning sensation across his shoulders. Pippin stood before him, staring up with wide, concerned eyes. Faramir breathed a quick sigh, relieved that it was not Legolas or Frodo who had caught him off guard.

"I came to bring you to the council," the Hobbit began, staring at Faramir in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. "Merry is searching for Legolas and I..." he stopped suddenly. "Faramir, are you well..."

Faramir nodded quickly, though already he could feel the pain of old wounds and fresh terror overtaking his thoughts.

"You are bleeding," Pippin said, reaching up to touch the young man's back.

Faramir glanced down at the sleeves of his white shirt and realised the blood drawn from his wounds must have shown through for Pippin to see.

He turned away from the Hobbit's concerned ministrations, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Let us go to the council."

The Hobbit watched him closely as they walked, and Faramir at last consented to rest his hand upon the Hobbit's shoulder for support.

* * *

The glade beneath the trees was cool and flushed with golden light. As Faramir moved with Pippin out from the shadowy trees, he saw that the other three Hobbits had come there before them.

Merry came to Pippin's side as they approached. "I could not find any sign on Aragorn or Legolas," the breathless Hobbit told his cousin. "And Gimli would not come when I asked him."

"I simply said, Master Hobbit, that I would not be drawn away ere I had finished my pipe." Gimli spoke from behind, and they all turned to see the Dwarf emerge from the trees. "So where is this Elvish Lady then? If this is a ploy, young Hobbits, to draw me away from my lunch then you will regret..."

Gimli's threat remained unfinished as the sound of soft voices and gentle singing wafted through the trees towards them. The Dwarf raised his hand to where his axe hilt should have been and narrowed his eyes. None of them spoke, and Faramir felt a strange sense of awe envelop him in the silence.

Then it seemed as if the sky was suddenly a shade lighter and as though the trees before them were bending their boughs to give passage to the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.

Both were clad wholly in white, and as they approached the small group everything else seemed of a darker colour.

Celeborn held the arm of his lady and together they took the chairs brought forth for them. Faramir felt his heart lightened by the sight and forgot awhile the pain of his wounds.

A woman's voice, spoken not aloud but seemingly within his mind, said, "So we have come together at last under the trees of Lothlorien." The words were of his own tongue, yet seemed more gentle and beautiful when spoken by the melodious voice of the Elf Lady. He looked up to meet her eyes.

Faramir had known men of strength and loyalty who had traveled in secret to Lórien. Most did not return. The majority of those who did return did so only in body, for there was something in their eyes that showed where their hearts had truly remained. Faramir had long wished to see her with his own eyes, the Lady that died not, though he had also been afraid of what such beauty could make one forget. And he wondered, at that moment, whether the wildly beautiful lands of Ithilien or the magnificent White Tower would still seem so beautiful after such a meeting.

And as the Lady looked away, he thought he could then understand a little of the hearts of those who had remained in Lorien, for it would take a strong will to leave such a place even in winter. But he thought that he also understood those who returned. Too much remained uncertain in a place where time slowed, and a man would find himself ever wondering and unsure of what he had left behind.

Faramir hardly noticed the arrival of Aragorn and Legolas, so bewitched he was by the voice and face of the Lady. But it was what he had seen in her eyes that most affected him; deep wisdom and understanding beyond that of mortal men.

Aragorn took his place by Frodo, placing a reassuring hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. Briefly speaking with Aragorn in the Elvish tongue, Celeborn stood. "Guidance we of the Galadhrim cannot give, but if you seek council we may aid you. Time is flowing swiftly, and every day the hand of Sauron tightens its grip. If your quest if ever to be completed, you must harden your hearts to leave this land on the morrow."

Faramir listened to the Hobbit's protests with pity, and thought he saw Aragorn's influence in the decision. Perhaps the news of Gollum, which Legolas must by now have revealed, had forced Aragorn to act swiftly.

"We will provide you with boats," Celeborn was saying, "for I can see that you have not yet decided your course. Though, in the end, the boats will not decide for you. You must choose... the east bank or the west."

A thick silence fell and in that time Galadriel gazed at each of the Fellowship in turn. None of them, save Aragorn and Legolas, could endure her gaze. Sam and Merry's faces flushed, and they quickly looked away. And into Frodo's eyes crept a great longing for something far away. Pippin too seemed troubled and disturbed by what the Lady revealed to him.

Through Gimli's shoulder Faramir felt the Dwarf start as the Lady's gaze came to rest on him. He was amazed to see Gimli's face actually growing red, not in anger, but in what appeared to be tenderness. He heard the Dwarf's loud sigh as the eyes left him and, in their turn, moved to Faramir himself.

Again he saw the depth of wisdom in those eyes, and was drawn into them until he was aware of nothing else. Then he felt her inside his mind, searching for something though he knew not what. It was not an unpleasant feeling because her whole being emanated trust and security; only it was strange for him to see a thing of story and myth become reality.

He gasped suddenly as her golden visage was overshadowed by another image, clear and familiar. It was an image of dreams, his dreams for peace and a life where no one need fear for the ones they loved. Upon a stone balcony, high above the land and the city below, were two figures. The wind tugged at their dark hair, and they laughed together about something he could not hear. Faramir knew the figures to be his brother and himself even before he had looked more closely and knew also that this scene might have been if Gondor had been at peace and the threat of Mordor never realised.

And at that moment it seemed more than a simple dream. It was a reality if he were to just speak one word of acceptance. But something held him back, and he knew inside that taking peace for himself and his family would force others to walk darker paths in his place. With an effort he dispelled the vision and dropped his gaze from that of Galadriel.

Afterwards the Fellowship took their rest together for one of the first occasions since entering Lórien. They lay long on the soft grass and spoke of the Lady Galadriel.

"It was hard not to believe she could just do what she promised," Sam was saying. "When you looked into her eyes she seemed, well, as though she could magic you back home and make it all disappear."

"And yet you chose to go on," Aragorn said, smiling slightly at the simple way Sam explained the feelings they had all experienced.

"I said to myself when this all began; I'll go with Mr Frodo 'til the end, and we'll return to the Shire... together."

There was a silence as all considered Sam's unwavering devotion.

Faramir did not feel ready to discuss his own choice; Boromir's face still lingered in his mind and he could not help wondering whether his brother would have made a similar decision.

He lay awake for many hours after the others had fallen asleep. The stars were bright above the treetops and, as he rested, he traced the well-known shapes and recounted their stories. He imagined standing on the battlements of Minas Tirith with a clear sky above and the promise of a fine day. Gondor had been too long at war, and the people had almost forgotten the meaning of peace.

"You often look to the stars, do you not, son of Denethor?"

The voice startled him, gentle though it was, and brought him back to the present. He raised himself to his elbows and looked up at the Lady standing above him. He rose quietly to his feet, so as not to waken the others, and bowed his head.

"The stars hold a special meaning for you, I see, as they do for the Elves who dwell here." The Lady turned and moved away across the green lawn. Faramir was compelled to follow.

Silently she led him down the southern slopes of Caras Galadhon, and through a tall arch shaped in a hedge. The Lady moved with silent purpose, and it seemed as though her feet barely touched the curving steps as she led him onwards into a bare garden open to the sky. Faramir lifted his eyes to the stars once more and saw that in that place, where the stream reflected them, the stars seemed more bright than any he had seen.

"The star of Eärendil, ever the hope of the Elves." As she spoke she lifted her white hand to the brightest of all the stars. "And when you gaze upwards, do you look for hope? Or perhaps contact..."

Faramir did not try to deny his secret reason for gazing at the stars, for he knew the Lady saw all things and had already seen into his own heart.

"When one of us was away from Minas Tirith," he began, realising that she was the first to whom he had spoken of this, "I looked to the stars as a way to reassure myself... It is a terrible thing to be in constant fear of losing a brother... I thought that perhaps if he were looking up too..." He took a breath and found her eyes upon him. Then he tried to smile. "Old superstitions remain, and I still look to the stars for comfort."

"You are afraid to return to Minas Tirith, are you not? Do you fear what you may find there?". Her voice remained ever gentle, and he did not feel the need to conceal anything.

Hoping she might ease his mind he said, "Since I left, I have dreamt many times of his death... I am afraid that I should never have left my city, and that dark deeds have come of it.

"You see with a keen eye," she said after a moment, and her words made his heart sink in that she could not reassure him it was not so. "That is why I have brought you here... That you may look, if you will, and learn what you may."

She went then to the stream, and filled a silver basin with the clear water. She breathed upon it and waited until it stilled.

"Will you look?"


	17. The mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The in between chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Comments welcome. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 30 - The Mirror**

The mirror was as black as the night sky, with stars shining back at him as though reflected from above. But the water of the mirror was somehow deeper than the sky, and darker than the blackest of nights. And the stars within it seemed cold and clung only to the surface.

Faramir almost looked away from the water, wondering what the Lady had meant him to see. But something compelled him to look on. And it was only a moment before the stars suddenly faded, leaving the water empty. He felt something rising within him, a feeling of anticipation... of dread.

The emptiness drew him closer, filling the whole of his vision with darkness.

Then it was as though parts of the darkness fell away, revealing shapes of light. And the shadows that remained formed a mass, like a great army moving across bare plains. He could almost see the glint of their armour in the sun.

Then the shadow army was gone, and light shone brightly before him. The land was bare and windswept, and his vision was drawn to the only settlement in sight. Edoras. He recognised the citadel on the peak by its description. Set high upon a great hill, its only miliary advantage being its great height above land. The land of the horse-masters. It was indeed a spectacular sight!

Then Faramir thought of the army and was afraid. These people who lived in the small houses on the windy hillside would not stand long against such a great force.

The green banner of the white horse fluttered proudly above the highest building, and Faramir was amazed by the architectural skill of the ones who had built in such a desolate place.

A white flower grew beneath the city gates, and he wondered at his ability to see such a small thing from that distance. But it seemed to call to him, cold and proud amid a place where no life flourished in comfort and prosperity.

The vision changed, and Faramir felt himself despairing at its loss. For the beautiful white flower was gone and in its place was the white tower of Ecthelion, and he feared what he might see within the walls of his home. A shadow surrounded the city, and the outer walls seemed tainted with blood. He could feel the fear that rose from the city and smell the stench of death from bodies heaped beneath the walls. His stomach heaved at the sight.

Vaguely Faramir realised he was holding his breath. Barricades had been placed on the walls and the great gate, yet he saw with horror that the Gateway was open and the shadow was already streaming through!

The vision changed again, and he drew a sharp breath of relief. He could not have watched the defeat of his home knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent it! He saw the tower once more, and felt his body relax as he saw that it still held its majestic beauty.

Yet something was still amiss, for at top of the White Tower a red light shone forth. In that instant he was reminded of the great eye on the highest tower of Barad-dûr miles across the river, and saw with horror that the light originated from the chambers of his father...

Rushing forwards he felt the flames before he saw them, felt the fire leap towards him with intolerable heat. He cried out when the flames touched his skin, the image of the Balrog and its fiery whip jerking his memory. The smell of burning flesh, his own, reached him, and he could feel the red tongues touching his bare arms with pain. He stumbled back, but the fire still came. He choked, breathing in the dark fumes as the tapestries on the walls were reduced to charred and blackened threads. He dropped to his knees, closing his eyes against the vile fumes and taunting flames.

His eyes stung, and he knew the flames to be upon him. He called out for his father, just once, but there was no reply save the roar of flame - and his own weak breathing as he lost hope.

* * *

Faramir opened his eyes as a rush of cold air brushed his face. He was alone. No longer was he kneeling weakly amid the destruction of his father's chambers, he was in the clearing beneath the stars, surrounded by the silent night of Lorien.

Trembling, he breathed the clean air, yet still the flames seemed upon his skin. He felt the perspiration on his brow begin to cool, but could not forget the heat of the burning room, nor the smell of burning flesh. He glanced down at his trembling hands, fearing what he might see. But they were clean and there was no sign of flame or ash. Yet he could feel it even now, a slow burn beneath his skin.

He looked up and saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the mirror. He forced himself to stand, swallowing at the burning sensation clinging to his legs.

Looking around for the Lady Galadriel he saw that she had left him and wondered if her absence could be due to what the mirror had revealed. But she had offered him the chance to look into such an instrument of magic, and he must seek her out for any explanation she could give.

Faramir moved slowly up the staircase, clenching his hands into fists as if he could rub away the burning from his fingers. His vision seemed to be blurred, and he thought of the smoke filled air in the tower.

Perhaps in truth he was still there, waiting to die with the ashes of his house. Perhaps all this was a smoke induced fantasy... But then he remembered the mirror, and that it had been a vision. He had seen someone's death... His father? brother? Or was it that he had felt the manner of his own end? Was that why the fire clung to him still?

"Faramir?"

He looked up at the speaker, his vision blurring with each step. He could make out the background of trees behind, and a figure with golden hair. "Legolas?"

"No. It is I, Haldir. Here, take my arm. You are unwell." The voice sounded sympathetic and Faramir wanted nothing more than to tell the strong Elf what he had seen. But too long had he guarded his emotions from those around him, and he let himself by led onwards in silence.

Haldir made him sit with a back to a tree and crouched beside him in concern. When the Elf's cold hand touched his shoulder he felt the fire that had taunted his senses disappear, leaving his body numb and weak.

They remained in silence some moments, and Faramir, now beginning to regain his senses, felt ashamed that he had acted so weakly.

"There has been an attack on the border," Haldir said after a time. "A scouting party of Orcs. They Lady sent me to you."

Faramir suddenly felt very tired. There did not seem to be any hope for Middle Earth. He had seen his city fall to Sauron, and now it seemed as though even the haven of the Elves was not safe.

"She was worried that you might have seen something," Haldir prompted.

Faramir sighed, seeing the Elf was not going to leave him. "I believe my brother is dead and my city on the edge of ruin."

Haldir's calm facade broke for a moment, and Faramir caught a glimpse of the turmoil within. "The mirror shows many things, not all of which come to pass," he said. "The future can always be changed by wise or foolish decisions, and there is always hope."

The Elf stood, looking down for a moment. Then he reached up and removed his cloak, passing it down to Faramir. "You should sleep here tonight. I shall see to it that you are not disturbed."

"Thank you, Haldir."

The Elf left him, and Faramir felt like a child that had been sent to bed. He was so weary that he did sleep, yet his dreams were dark and full of fire and death.

* * *

It was still early when Faramir returned to the canopy the rest of the Fellowship had slept beneath. Gimli stared at him with narrowed eyes, expecting an instant explanation, and he felt the eyes of the others upon him when he was looking away.

Aragorn came up to him as they were packing for the journey and looked hard into his face. "Are you well, Faramir?"

"Aye," he replied, not meeting Aragorn's eyes. "Though I will be more so when Gimli removes his eyes from by back!"

Aragorn glanced over the other man's shoulder to see Gimli's gaze still upon them. He did not smile, and said instead, "I believe some of us will be glad to leave the Golden Wood, for here we have seen things ahead that might make us want to turn back."

Faramir's face remained blank at Aragorn's perceptiveness and with a sigh the other changed the subject.

"Our departure has been delayed till after noon. The Galadhrim need time to grieve the news of last night."

"Grieve?" Faramir asked, feeling an unknown fear creep inside him.

"You have not been told?" Aragorn sighed, "There are three dead. And among them is Haldir's brother Orophin. This is a black day for the people of the Golden wood."

Faramir did not hear Aragorn's last words, he had closed his eyes and was remembering his selfish words the night before.

I believe my brother is dead

Had Haldir known then that his own brother had been slain. Of course he had! That was what Faramir had seen in the Elf's eyes when he had mentioned his trouble."

"Faramir?"

He realised Aragorn was talking to him, but his eyes would not focus. Tears of self-reproach blurred his vision, and he knew he would have to go and find Haldir. "I am sorry Aragorn, I must go."

He did not look back to see if he was followed.

* * *

He found Haldir on the banks of the Anduin. The Elf did not sense his approach and Faramir found it hard to speak past the tightness of his throat.

"If you have come to offer your sympathies there was no need."

Faramir was surprised and slightly taken aback by the blank note of the Elf's voice and he did not move any closer.

"I am sorry Haldir, for what I said and did last night." He felt relieved to have said it, but no less wretched knowing that the Elf had spent time caring for him when he should have been grieving with his family.

The Elf turned slowly, looking at him carefully. "Would dwelling on my loss have made the pain any easier to bear? Was it not better that my attention be given to one that could be helped than one already lost to me?"

Faramir could make no reply. Again he felt like a child.

"You must remember this, should something similar happen to you." The Elf turned his head to look at the river once more, and Faramir felt compelled to leave.

But as he moved away the Elf spoke again, "I have brought this for you."

Faramir looked back to see Haldir holding out a bow he had seen before on the grass.

"It was Orophin's, and there is no one to use it now."

Faramir's hand trembled as he took the bow, and he felt the last person who deserved such a gift.

"May it protect on your road home to your brother."

Faramir grasped Haldir's outstretched arm but could find no words to express his gratitude.

* * *

"It is strange that all you take from this place are weapons, when you say you dislike them so heartily." Gimli was in an introspective mood after their farewell to Galadriel. His eyes were fixed on the golden hair he had managed so gallantly to receive as a gift. Faramir's own gift, a short sword to replace his own that had been left in the mines, was in Gimli's other hand. The dwarf examined it before passing it back.

"What I said, Gimli," Faramir explained, slightly frustrated, "was that my love of a weapon is for what it defends, not what it destroys."

The Dwarf shrugged, sighing slightly as the last of the supplies were moved into the boats. "I wonder if I shall ever recover..." he said, "for surely nothing after could compare to her beauty."

Faramir groaned, this had been going on for over an hour!

"The boats are prepared." The voice from behind startled them both. "they are said to be strong, though I wonder if they can hold your weight, master Dwarf." Legolas stepped lightly away from Gimli's swipe of the hand as the Dwarf snapped out of his dreamy mood. "I for one," Legolas continued, "will enjoy the sight of a Dwarf with a wet beard."

"And I," Gimli said with a smile, "will be equally entranced by the sight of a drowning Elf! We are traveling in the same boat!"

Legolas' smile fell away, and he gaped at the Dwarf for a moment. Then his eyes moved to Faramir for confirmation. The man shrugged, unwilling to get involved.

Gimli began to laugh as Legolas ran past him.

"Aragorn!" Faramir heard the Elf saying. "I will not travel in the same boat as that Dwarf!"


	18. Flying horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 31 - Flying horrors**

Frodo trailed a hand in the cool water, somehow not feeling the sensation upon his skin. He felt numb and empty leaving the land of the Elves. Although, as he had told Sam, he had begun to feel that they could no longer prolong the inevitable, he still felt a great sadness at the thought that this could be the last comfort they found till their quest was done, or proved vain.

He could not resist the temptation to look back one last time at the Elven home that would fade after their passing. This, revealed to him by the Lady when he and Sam had gazed into the mirror, had struck a great sadness into his heart. It seemed wrong that such beauty would fade whatever the outcome of their quest.

The Lady was standing on the shore, one hand raised in a final farewell. Her white garments shone brightly, and Frodo glanced down at the starglass in his hand. He felt his mind return to something of itself. With help from such fine folk there would always be hope.

The Fellowship were vastly different from when they had stumbled into Lorien days before. They had found rest and strength to carry on the next stage of their quest, and Frodo wondered what new horrors it held in store for them. The darkness they had stumbled into in the Mines of Moria seemed like a bad dream, though Frodo perceived even darker paths lay ahead.

They rounded a bend in the river, and Lorien was lost to them.

Frodo heard Sam's sigh, and saw Aragorn's shoulders droop slightly as he continued to paddle.

"It's strange to think we should never see it again," Sam murmured, his eyes still fixed on the bend in the river.

Frodo smiled sadly, "Is it not better to remember the trees of the Golden Wood in their splendour, than to stain memory with another visit?"

"I suppose you are right," Sam said, dragging his eyes away and turning back into the boat. "I wish I had not seen the Shire in the mirror, for now when I think of it I see smoke and trees that aught never have been felled."

* * *

They had been drifting for many nights, and the light of morning was beginning to show. Merry had not counted the time or even the passing of days. The landscape had changed slowly as they meandered south, imperceivably, and with a slowness that belied his senses to reckon when exactly the bare hillsides had been grown a forest of thin trees then become rocky and grey.

Merry gazed ahead through the stillness, unaware of the presence of Pippin and Faramir behind him. The silence had lasted for so long he felt as though it was choking him, and he longed to become involved in the conversation of which he had caught murmurs between Gimli and Legolas in the other boat.

It was the eighth day, by Merry's vague reckoning, and the rocky land had risen to tall cliffs seemingly overnight.

They had brought the boats together in the middle of the stream to discuss their course.

"The Rapids of Sarn Gebir lie ahead," Aragorn told them, shifting his paddle to steady the boat, "though by my reckoning it is many miles before we shall reach the impassable region."

"It is said none have passed through the Rapids to tell the tale!" Gimli said loudly, with a hint of warning in his tone.

"Have no fear, Gimli," Aragorn assured him, "I would not risk the rapids even if it cut days off our journey."

Merry looked ahead down stream. There was no sign of rocks or even the current quickening its pace. Though in the early morning mist it was hard to tell whether the rapids were before them.

"We must post a firm watch on the leading boat," Legolas said gravely, "it would not do to recognise the rapids only as we are sinking."

"Dwarves are fine swimmers and would have no trouble braving even such waters as these!" Gimli turned to the Elf behind him as a challenge.

Legolas shifted the paddle, leaning it dangerously close to Gimli's head, "I would be honoured to test my strength braving these waters with you master Dwarf, though you seem to have an advantage."

Gimli raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Elves have little in the way of.. padding. And when we came to the Rapids I would..." Legolas ducked as Gimli swung an angry punch at his head.

"Very well," Aragorn laughed. "We will rest on the bank at first light and travel on once more as soon as the day grows dark."

* * *

Beneath Merry's feet the muddy bank was cold and wet. It had been raining again for some time and Merry felt damp to his bones. However well his Elven cloak hid him from unfriendly eyes, it did little in the way of keeping him dry and warm.

He had been sheltering beneath a low bush with Pippin, but had began to feel restless and eager for the Fellowship to be on their way. Pippin was sleeping fitfully, groaning quietly as he manoeuvre himself in order to find a comfortable position on the wet bank.

As Merry scrambled out from beneath the foliage, he almost tripped over Gimli. The Dwarf was pacing unceasingly, grumbling to himself about the need for a fire. Legolas had disappeared suddenly, revealing nothing of his location, and Merry suspected this had irked the Dwarf far more than the lack of warmth.

Beyond the small camp Aragorn was crouching on the bank close to the water with Faramir. And as Merry approached, the two men looked up with grim expressions showing from beneath their hoods.

"Is something wrong, Aragorn?" he asked, looking around himself to try and perceive what was troubling them.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment before answering, "I can be sure of nothing, Merry. Through our tracks I can see little, and I wish we had been more cautious when we came ashore. For something strikes me as strange..." The man stopped, shaking his head slightly at his own thoughts. "But I speak in riddles that are the product of my over cautious mind..."

"It is better to be more cautious than less," Faramir said, and Merry was somewhat surprised to hear him speak after the long days of his silent contemplation in the boats.

Aragorn sighed, straightening his shoulders and rising to his feet. "I feel something other than ourselves has been here... though I cannot say who or what could have been walking the banks of the Anduin."

"Orcs?" Faramir suggested with a shrug, "Sauron's minions have been sighted across many lands. It would not surprise me to learn they had crossed to the western bank of the river."

"You may be right," Aragorn nodded, "but it is also the birds on the cliffs that worry me."

Merry had seen the large black shapes flying around the rocky outcrops above the river. They seemed to have followed the Fellowship in the previous days, ever watching as they camped during the day. Sometimes Merry had sensed a presence above them as they paddled, though it had been too dark to make out shapes.

Aragorn had narrowed his eyes while Merry was thinking, as if listening to something he alone could hear. Merry concentrated too, though he could not pick out anything other than the gentle rain and the rushing of the river.

"Something approaches," Aragorn murmured, grasping Merry's shoulder and slowly drawing the Hobbit back towards the camp, his eyes searching the sky.

"Aragorn!"

Legolas' warning came only a moment before the creature itself. A great dark shape above blanketed the evening sky, covering them all in darkness. A shrill cry pierced Merry's ears as the thing swooped towards them.

Merry felt himself thrown upon the ground, his face hitting mud as Aragorn's body held him firmly down. The creature shrieked again, and Merry's heart shrunk at the sound. He felt venerable and in clear sight of the Thing above. Aragorn's cloak was covering them both, though the thin material did nothing to shield him from the eyes of the Nazgul, now mounted on a terrifying winged steed. Merry drew in on himself, feeling despair envelop him as the shadow loomed closer.

Then the darkness diminished slightly as the Wraith pulled out of its dive. Merry felt the black cloud, he had felt once before in Bree, lift slightly. And he thought that perhaps the Wraith had not sighted them and that it was only by chance that it had been searching the river banks.

But Aragorn was taking no chances, and the moment the shadow passed them Merry felt the Ranger's strong grip pulling his him up, and then they were running to the safety of the higher ground.

Merry saw the others of the Fellowship, wide eyed and as fearful as he himself had been looking up to where the Wraith blackened the dark sky.

"It is coming again," Legolas said, squinting into the night, "take cover!"

The Elf was right, and Merry was once again flung down by strong arms as the creature approached. This time he had landed on his back, and he saw with horror that Legolas had not hid with the rest of them. The Elf was outlined by the growing moon as he drew back his bow. Merry felt a rush of fear as the black shape grew larger. Surely it would see them!

Legolas' arrow flew straight and true, and his shot was rewarded by a harsh shriek from the creature. It reeled in the sky, veering backwards and away from its enemies. Merry did not see where the Wraith landed, but he heard the dying shriek from the flying beast as it, and its rider, crashed to the earth.

"It has come down on the western back," Legolas said, jumping down from the perch he had been standing on and helping Merry to stand.

The Hobbit's legs felt weak and it was only a with a great strength of will that he forced himself to remain standing. Pippin's hand was suddenly on his, and Merry felt grateful for the comfort.

"What was that thing, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, leaning on his axe as he regained his breath.

Aragorn looked troubled, "I will not speak of it here, Gimli. Night is approaching fast and we have no time to waste in talk."

Gimli was not satisfied with the answer, but he could see the warning in Aragorn's eyes and did not speak on it. "A fine shot, I must admit," he said after a moment, thumping Legolas hard on the back. "Never have I seen such precision! Not even the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain could be so accurate in their mining."

"I thank you for the complement, master Dwarf," Legolas touched a hand to his forehead. "That is fine praise indeed... from a Dwarf."

"Is it dead," Sam asked, looking up at Aragorn hopefully.

Aragorn looked pained. "The Wraiths are not so easily destroyed, Sam. You saw this in Rivendell when the Wraiths survived the waters of the ford. While their steeds may perish, they live on."

"Do you think it saw us?" Frodo asked. "The boats were in plain sight on the bank."

Everyone turned and saw that the Hobbit was right. They had forgotten to disguise the boats!

Aragorn said something under his breath that Merry could not catch. Then he said, "We will take no chances. We will travel on the bank for a few days and carry the boats, they will not expect that."

Merry agreed heartily with the suggestion, somehow the thought of travelling in plain sight along the river terrified him.

"Aragorn," Frodo whispered suddenly. "There is something moving on the bank. There, see? By the boats."

Merry looked, holding his breath. There was something there, something small and shadowy creeping around the boats. But Merry could not make it out in the gathering darkness.

"It is Gollum," Legolas hissed after a moment, and again Merry was amazed by the sight of the Elves. "Do I shoot?"

Aragorn hesitated long, his brow creased with worry. He did not seem as surprised to see the creature as the others were.

"We must kill it," Gimli hissed, "it has followed us far too long. Now is our chance to free ourselves."

Aragorn still hesitated. At last he said in a whisper Merry could hardly catch, "Do not shoot to kill, we would learn much from questioning the creature."

Legolas and Aragorn shared a hard stare, and Merry could not understand what either of them were thinking. Then Legolas lifted his bow...


	19. Sméagol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 32 - Sméagol**

Aragorn held his breath, waiting for Legolas to release the arrow that would bring down the creature skulking on the shore. His body was stiff with tension, and he clenched his fists in frustration at their position. Rain streamed down from dark clouds, soaking through the elvish cloak he wore. His mind felt heavy at the dark possibilities that would arise from this decision. His common sense told him that they should kill the creature, yet his heart screamed in protest to this. Did Gollum's presence in their camp mean they had already been betrayed to the enemy? Aragorn reached for his own bow, wishing to be ready if they were taken off guard. The rain grew more insistent, and still they waited.

"What is it, Elf?" Gimli hissed through his teeth, "what stays your hand?"

Aragorn stared intently at Legolas' face. The Elf seemed outwardly calm, yet more pale than usual. In his eyes Aragorn could see more emotion than the Elf would have chosen to display, and he was suddenly aware of a great conflict battling inside his friend.

"Legolas?" he asked, glancing quickly at the dark shape that was the object of the Elf's distress. Gollum was sheltered, half hidden, behind the boats on the shore, seemingly unaware of the Fellowship standing not six metres away. Aragorn could hear the quiet movements of its feet as it shifted in the mud of the bank.

The Elf stiffened at the sound of Aragorn's voice, and a slight tremor shook his hold on the bow. Then Legolas turned, lowering his bow and dropping his gaze.

"I cannot, Aragorn," he whispered so quietly that the Ranger barely heard. "I cannot trust myself not to kill it."

Aragorn was stunned, seeing perhaps for the first time how deeply his friend had been affected by the deaths in Mirkwood this creature had caused. He should never have forced such a responsibility upon the Elf, yet could trust no one else to hit such a target in the dark and the rain without killing the creature.

Someone shifted a foot, one of the Hobbits, though he could not detect which one. The black shape on the bank stiffened instantly, frozen to the spot. Aragorn could see it was ready to flee, and knew he could not let that happen. As Gollum sprang into motion, Aragorn fitted an arrow to his bow and fired. There was a screech from the black shape as it fell, then a splash and muttered curses from the water's edge.

With frantic speed Aragorn rushed forwards with Faramir and Gimli, leaving Legolas standing wide-eyed on the bank. In the shallows Gollum was thrashing to be free of the arrow that had pinned him to the earth. Falling to his knees in the dark water Aragorn was surprised see that there was no blood upon the pale flesh, nor a wound of any kind. Grasping the arrow shaft in the midst of Gollum spitting curses and struggling, he saw with wonder that his arrow had not injured the creature in any way, only stuck in the dirty cloth that was the only garment Gollum wore, and entrenched itself in the mud of the bank!

Gimli lunged forward, attempting to grab the creature around the neck, but Gollum evaded his touch, squirming away with a screech and leaving Gimli floundering in the mud.

"His arms, Faramir, quickly!" Aragorn moved with a swiftness that surprised Gollum, and he managed to catch a hold of one of the flailing arms before he could twist away. There was a tearing sound as the cloth stuck by the arrow tore free.

Gollum splashed to his feet, trying to wrench himself out of his captor's hold. The pale skin was slippery beneath his fingers and Aragorn felt himself losing his grip. He yanked on the arm, so that Gollum lost his footing and fell face first into the water.

Then Faramir was able to catch hold of Gollum's other arm, though the creature struggled violently, trying to strike out at the men who held him. Aragorn tightened his grip. He was determined not to let Gollum escape now they had him. He well remembered the last time he had pursued Gollum almost to Mordor itself in order to capture him. He had no desire for another such chase.

Nodding to Faramir to follow his lead, Aragorn hauled on Gollum's arm as he stood. Dragging the creature between them they moved to higher ground, followed by the disgruntled and very wet Dwarf.

Under normal circumstances Aragorn would have expected an amusing comment from Legolas on Gimli's appearance, but the Elf had not seemed to notice his stout friend, and had eyes only for the creature.

Looking up at the startled faces of his companions Aragorn felt a sudden surge of helplessness. What were they to do now? For safety's sake they could not let Gollum go free from here, yet taking him with the Fellowship would be near impossible.

"We need rope," he managed to say, breaking the others out of their stupor.

Sam jumped. "I knew it would come in handy!" he exclaimed. He went to his pack and rummaged inside for a moment.

Aragorn felt Gollum twisting within his grasp, and shared a dark glance with Faramir as they struggled to restrain him.

Gimli, after brushing himself off thoroughly, had now recovered his dignity and was quite ready for the next challenge. "Here, Master Samwise, this is the job for a Dwarf!

We Dwarves, it is needless to say," he remarked as he took the elven rope from the Hobbit, "excel at tying knots!"

Aragorn grimaced at the scream of fear Gollum gave as they tried to bring his arms together behind him. The wretched creature seemed so small and weak surrounded by the tall figures of the two men and the stout Dwarf that Aragorn almost pitied his fear.

Gimli pulled the rope tight, and almost immediately Gollum went slack in their grasp, and began a constant whine that continued on into the silence. Aragorn was not careless enough, however, to fall for this ploy and he gripped the creature's arm tighter still.

His eyes wandered to Legolas, where the Elf stood slightly back from them. For once Aragorn could not read the Elf's features and he wished he then had the time to speak alone with his friend.

Gimli seemed to sense this, pulling slightly in the cord attached to Gollum's hands. "I will take care of this while you three bring in the boats. We have had quite enough visitors for one night."

Aragorn gave Gimli a grateful nod, relieved that he could leave Gollum in dependable hands.

Motioning to Legolas and Faramir he moved back down to the shore, picking his way over the treacherous ground.

When he reached the boats he stopped, waiting with his back turned and one hand resting on the prow of the nearest vessel. He noted with some annoyance that the boats were gathering water with all the rain that had fallen.

Legolas and Faramir appeared beside him soon after, and before Aragorn could speak Faramir asked, "What will you do?"

Aragorn sighed, unsure, and flashed a worried glance at Leoglas. The Elf returned the gaze steadily but said nothing.

Faramir had perceived the uncomfortable tension between the two friends and changed his line of questioning. "Do you think the appearance of the Nazgul is related to Gollum's presence?"

Aragorn nodded and said darkly, "Perhaps. And I see your point. We cannot let him go free from here." He saw his own fears reflected in the eyes of his friends. There was no way now that they could risk freeing Gollum. It was too dangerous. They could not be sure whether Gollum was in league with the enemy, revealing their location to others who might watch. Had the Nazgul's sudden appearance been just a coincidence?

Once again silence fell and the tension grew between them.

"What say you, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, feeling irritated that his friend would neither support his judgement nor reveal his fears.

Legolas glared at him, and there was sad determination in his eyes. After a long moment the Elf spoke, "You know what I would say, Aragorn. I would council you to destroy the creature now and rid us of this threat."

"He is defenceless in our hands," Faramir said, "surely it would be better to wait and understand more of our enemy than kill out of fear."

He felt Legolas stiffen beside him The Elf's eyes darkened and Aragorn knew he had taken Faramir's words as an insult to his pride. "I am not afraid." he hissed, angrily.

"Then why condemn a piteous creature so swiftly to death?"

"Piteous?" Legolas spat. "You pity him?"

Aragorn heard the exasperated sigh and knew the Elf was riled by more than anger. Legolas' mind was with those who had died that night in Mirwood protecting this creature. He was afraid the Fellowship might face the same fate if they kept Gollum with them. His fear for their safety mixed with his pride quickly turned to bitterness "Tell me, 'Captain' Faramir," he asked, using the title as a slur, "what would be your judgement if an enemy spy infiltrated Gondor's refuge? You would kill him, and do not deny it!"

"I would not wish to deny it," Faramir answered coolly, and Aragorn saw that the man's stoic control of his emotions further irritated the Elf. "But I do not kill in haste or without reason."

Aragorn decided to stop the situation before it escalated. "We will decide nothing until I have spoken to the others," he said glancing sternly at both of them, as if daring them to protest. Then he spoke more quietly, his voice betraying his weariness, "It is a dark night for such decisions. We will see what light the new day may bring upon our problem."

Faramir looked ashamed, having heard the exhaustion in Aragorn's voice. His face, that had been intense during the argument, darkened to the blank expression of the past days. He looked as tired as Aragorn felt.

Aragorn turned his back to them both, not missing the angry hurt still blazing in Legolas' eyes. He had quite forgotten their purpose in going down to the shore, and would have left the boats where they were. But as he turned he stopped short, finding Frodo standing before him.

"Frodo!" he began. But the Hobbit interrupted him.

"You cannot kill Gollum, Aragorn. You cannot!"

* * *

The night progressed slowly, and Legolas watched the dawn with quiet anger that burned within him. The red light growing on the horizon was very like his own frustration, eager to vent itself yet unable to do so.

His body felt stiff, and his back ached from lying on the hard ground. It was not like him to feel so wretched! And he could not help but feel angry at Aragorn for putting his mind to such unrest. It was Aragorn's duty to make decisions for them, but his friend had not heeded his advise and he felt betrayed. His mind admonished him for blaming Aragorn, but his own pride seethed with hurt.

Behind him he could here the quiet snores of one of the Hobbits, and Gimli's animal-like snorts. He would have smiled, but his heart felt heavy with the knowledge that the creature for who his friends had died was sharing camp with them.

Gollum seemed to be asleep, though Legolas did not trust the creature enough to check. He could not see the pale, haunted eyes, though knew that Gollum was most likely awake, waiting for an opportunity to escape.

Legolas could not understand Aragorn's reasoning. Surely they could not take the creature with them! With the boats it would be near impossible.

He looked up at the sky, hoping to gather some serenity from the stars. But dark rain clouds, that even the moon could not penetrate, blackened the sky.

There was a noise close by, and at first Legolas thought it was one of the others talking in their sleep. But the sound came again and this time he could make out the words.

"It burnss. It burns, it doess."

Legolas sprang quickly to his feet, wincing as he forced his sore body into action.

"Take it off, preciouss." The voice came again, and this time Legolas caught a flash of pale light as the two moon-like eyes glanced in his direction.

Legolas realised he was less angry than he thought he'd be at the sound of that familiar voice. There was such sadness in it that he could understand why others had pitied him. He looked down at the cowering creature, overwhelmed by mixed emotions.

"Nice Elf," Gollum said tentatively, looking up into Legolas' eyes pleadingly. "be nice to us and take it off. We won't run, precious, no..."

Legolas shuddered at Gollum's fawning gaze and turned his back, blocking his ears to the pleading voice.

"It is cruel to keep him like this," a voice from beside him said. The Elf recognised Merry's voice and did not turn. "At the Council we were told he was like a Hobbit once."

"What choice do we have?" Legolas asked more angrily than he meant to be, "Would you have it kill Frodo for what it seeks?"

There was a stunned silence, and Legolas closed his eyes, regretting he had spoken at all. Then he turned around and grasped the Hobbit's shoulder in a way he hoped was comforting.

"Forgive me, Merry. I spoke in haste. You are right to be compassionate." He could see Merry' eyes shining with confusion and fear. He cursed himself for being so callous. "I am tired and full of fear for what lies ahead," he began, "All creatures deserve a chance to prove themselves, however wretched."

But Legolas knew Gollum had already had his chance, and destroyed it when he ran and let the woodelves die for him.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice startled them. "Merry? What are you doing awake? I was sure it was Sam's watch."

"I told Sam I could not sleep," Legolas said, feeling Aragorn's gaze boring into him. "I have taken his watch."

"You need rest, Legolas," Aragorn said sternly, "You may not think it, but..."

"I know my own strength." Legolas interrupted angrily, feeling his frustration rise as Aragorn thought to give him advise. If Aragorn did not listen to advise, why should he?

Then he felt a rush of tiredness, and saw how childishly he was behaving. He sighed deeply, and searched inside himself for the strength to appear unaffected.

"We should move on as soon as it is light," Aragorn said, glancing down at Merry reasuringly. "We will carry the boats for some distance, until we have made sure we are not being pursude."

Legolas glanced down at Gollum, wondering at Aragorn's decision on that matter.

He heard his friend sigh, "We will take Gollum with us."

Legolas looked away, clenching his fist in anger. Gollum would bring them into danger, he knew it! Why did Aragorn not see it?


	20. Heavy burdens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 33 - Heavy burdens**

The light of the midday sun shone in Merry's eyes as he walked, dodging behind the trees for a moment before blinding him once more. His legs were numb with walking, and his back stiff and sore with the seemingly endless load they transported from the lower slopes of the western shore to the rise above the rapids.

The trouble with this part of their journey, he had decided, was that the boats, while light enough for the Hobbits to bear on flat land, were a dangerous burden to them on a slope.

The Fellowship's second trouble came from Gollum. He was a slippery creature, and more than once had he attempted to escape his watchful guardians. But Gimli had taken it upon himself to watch over the creature, and beneath the Dwarf's fiery gaze Gollum's whining had shrunk into obedience.

This, it seemed, had pushed Legolas to scout ahead and escape the company of the creature he so fervently disliked.

Merry was not sure whether he understood Legolas' feelings. There was certainly a sly air about Gollum that spoke of deception and wickedness, but there seemed also to be a part of the pale creature that deserved pity.

Legolas was now nowhere to be seen. At times Merry had thought he caught glimpses of the Elf's golden hair through the thin trees, but he could never be sure.

He sighed, frustrated once more, and shrugged his shoulders to even out his burden. With Aragorn and Faramir carrying the boats, one by one up the hill, the hobbits had been left to shoulder much of the supplies and belongings of the Fellowship.

Behind him Pippin was thrilled to be carrying Faramir's bow. It stood a foot taller than the Hobbit and Merry would have laughed were it not for the solemness with which his cousin took to the task.

He had been worried about Pippin for a long time now, sensing a building anxiety within his friend that would, he felt sure, come to a head close in the future.

Merry himself was carrying some of Aragorn's belongings, and even when divided between Sam, Frodo and himself, the load was astoundingly heavy. He marvelled at how the man could have carried it so far without complaint of the back-ache he himself was already beginning to feel. And remarked as much to the man as he drew level with the boat.

Panting, he gathered his breath, "I cannot understand how you carry all this!"

Aragorn looked down at him amusedly, raising an eyebrow to the comparatively small portion Merry was supporting. "It is all in the shoulders," he said, hefting the boat into a more comfortable position.

As Merry looked up at him, he noted the darkness of the other's eyes, and with further scrutiny picked out the slight limp with which the Ranger moved. It was obvious the weight of the boats was taking a larger toll on the man than he would show.

"I have never seen such strength before," Merry exclaimed, attempting to distract the man from his arduous task.

"Believe me, my friend," Aragorn replied, "Rangers are little known for their strength, but rather for their stealth and intelligence, is that not so Faramir?"

Merry glanced back at Faramir for his answer. The young man's face was creased in strain, and again Merry saw the similarities between him and Aragorn.

"Aye, it is as you say," he nodded, shifting the weight on his shoulder. "Were you to come to Minas Tirith, Merry, you would see warriors taller and stronger than any you could imagine. My brother..."

Merry glanced back at the sudden pause in the light conversation, and saw that the young man's eyes had misted over in recollection.

There was a long silence in which he hesitated to speak. He glanced up at Aragorn, who always seemed to have the right answers, and found the man searching his own face for what had happened. The silence continued, and only the tread of their feet on the slippery ground, and the low conversation of the three Hobbits behind, disturbed the peace.

"Can you see ahead, Merry?" Aragorn asked at last, causing Merry to jump slightly, "Legolas should have returned with news of the path we are to travel."

Merry looked up, scanning the skyline for any sign of Legolas. He gasped at what he saw, though it was not the Elf who had caused his surprise. To the left, through the trees, the river was foaming on the banks, pushing and shoving to crowd into the channel formed by the great pillars of stone on either bank. And the pillars were carved into the shape of two great figures of men, standing high and proud above the landscape, palms outstretched as if to ward away enemies from their mighty land.

He heard Aragorn sigh, "The pillars of the Kings, the Argornath. Long I have desired to look upon this place."

And as they continued on, the great sentinels rising every moment of the horizon, majestic and somehow threatening in their grandeur, Merry looked up at the silent Ranger who walked by his side. And he saw not the ragged stranger whose dark eyes had first fixed upon them at the Prancing Pony. This was Aragorn uncloaked. There was a strange look in his eyes, and even as his back bent beneath the weight of the Elvish boat, he grew taller and the wisdom he had gained in years of exile revealed itself in his eyes. And Merry thought, as they passed the crest of the rise and stood for a moment looking down, that the sun glanced upon his dark head, and that there was a white star upon his brow. But the moment passed, and the clouds drifted across the sun.

Below them Merry could make out the figure of Legolas in a small clearing. He was turned from them, and Merry could almost feel the alertness of the Elf's senses, even at such a distance. His body was tall, and the bow he held did not waver.

As they began their decent the Elf turned and jogged lightly up the hill to meet them.

"I have looked ahead, Aragorn," he said when he reached them. He said nothing more, but his countenance was dark.

Aragorn looked at him gravely, "What have you discovered?"

"There is nothing to be seen," the Elf replied hesitantly, "and yet I feel there is something amiss. The trees are unusually silent, as though they are afraid."

"We should not forget that your bow-work a few nights before brought down an evil upon these hills, a remnant of that evil may remain on this shore."

The Elf and the Ranger shared a dark look, and Merry felt excluded from their confidence. He thought it might be better if he hung back and walked beside Faramir or one of his fellow Hobbits, but at that moment Legolas spoke to him, "Are you well, Merry"

"Quite well," he assured the Elf, "but how long will it take to bring the other two boats to this place, and then where will we rest? The bank here is muddy."

"Fear not," Aragorn said, "it is not yet midday, and if fortune shines upon us we shall be through the Argornath before dark, I would not brave that great chasm at night."

"And which boat will carry Gollum?"

Legolas visibly flinched, and upon seeing Aragorn's eyes darken, Merry felt ashamed he had asked the question.

Without hesitating Aragorn answered, "Frodo and Sam will travel with Legolas, Gollum can be taken in my boat."

Merry nodded silently, trying not to notice the strain this decision was putting on the friendship of his companions. If this went on, he thought, the Fellowship would be weak and vulnerable if placed in any tight situations. Their loyalty and unquestioning devotion to Aragorn had enabled them to escape Caradhras and Moria, without it their Fellowship would be broken.

* * *

It did not take as long as Merry had thought it would to transport the two remaining boats and the rest of the baggage to the clearing beneath the pillars of the kings. They were to launch their boats immediately, for the sun was sinking swiftly, and Aragorn, it seemed, feared to make the journey in Darkness.

Keeping the middle of the stream was a harder task than any of them had expected, for the water, although clear, rushed swiftly towards the chasm beneath the great pillars, and it took all the strength of Faramir, Pippin and Merry himself to guide the boat safely.

As the passed beneath the tall stone men they bowed their heads. A sense of the greatness of these men, and of those who had created their likenesses came over them, and they were humbled beneath their stony shadows.

Then they passed into the chasm, and all was darkness and rushing water. Merry wondered whether they would ever return to the sunlit land, and was beginning to fear that they were trapped within an endless whirlpool. It was then he realised he could not swim. Swimming was not high on a Hobbit's list of important things to learn, though now Merry regretted he had not taken to the Brandywine and learnt before it was too late.

And then, just as his despair began to choke him, the boat shot out of the chasm and they were in the sun once more. They were now cruising upon an open lake, and the sun, that was shining pink from the midst of dark clouds, gave the whole place a rather romantic atmosphere.

"Faramir," Pippin asked quietly, his curiosity obviously defeating his reluctance to disturb the silence. "Who were the men carved from stone back there?"

"They are the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion," Faramir told them, and Merry deemed his clear voice perfect for telling tales of old, for he could hear the reverence with which the young man spoke. "They are Aragorn's ancestors, and were the founders of Minas Tirith, which was then called Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun."

Pippin was strangely silent for a moment as Faramir steered the boat to the western bank, then he smiled, "I thought I recognised that frown. Aragorn certainly takes after his ancestors!"

"Watch your tongue, little Hobbit," Gimli growled from the other boat, "I would not wish our very own king of old to capsize this flimsy boat in his wrath."

The shore seemed solid enough even after the days of rain. The boats were drawn up and set half in, half out, of the water so that they were ready in case of a quick departure.

And then the Fellowship moved under the cover of the trees and gazed around at each other. They had come to it, though no one had really the courage to mention the decision they would now make. Even Merry himself was startlingly clear about the dangers ahead. Thought, he thought, at least my choice is simple. I began this quest to help Frodo to the end and nothing has changed. For Pippin, though, he could not speak. This saddened Merry, and frightening him to think his cousin had a different resolution in mind. His loyalty and feeling of debt towards Faramir was strong, and Merry sensed Pippin's determination more keenly every day.

"It is a hard choice," Gimli said at last, speaking for them all. "And it is hard that the final decision should lay with but one of us." Eyes turned to Frodo, and Merry saw his cousin tense. "But I say bad weather is coming, by the looks of those clouds, and whatever decision is made I am sure we will all stand by it."

"I know that haste is needed," Frodo said, his voice strained so much that it pained Merry to hear it, "But I cannot decide, not yet. Give me an hour, and I will speak. Let me be alone."

Some nodded, but Merry felt as though a hand was tightening around his heart as he gazed around the circle and found the bright, moon-like eyes of Gollum to be fixed on Frodo. There was malice there, and greed, and Merry cringed in fear. The clouds swept over the moon.

* * *

They sat in silence. Waiting...

By Merry's reckoning Frodo had been gone quite a long time. He was sitting against the trunk of a thin tree, Pippin by his side. Sam was pacing restlessly by their feet, muttering to himself. Down on the shore, Aragorn spoke quietly with Legolas, every so often glancing up at the trees at their backs.

"We should not have let him go on his own," Gimli grunted to Faramir, hefting his axe in his palm. "It was most unwise."

"Frodo needed time alone to think," Faramir responded calmly, "it is a perilous decision."

The Dwarf grunted, then sighed, "Aye, I suppose you are right. And who would not need solitude with those eyes fixed on every moment."

Merry followed Gimli's gaze to Gollum. The creature's rope had been secured to a tree some distance away, and still Merry was unnerved by the pitiful stare those large eyes bestowed upon him.

"I still feel it is cruel to keep him like this," he muttered.

"Some things just have to be done," Faramir said, "for the greater good."

Merry was not sure if Faramir believed this to be true himself, for the Hobbit could see that even as he said the words he was questioning their truth. But Merry could find some little comfort in the thought. There had to be a way to justify imprisoning a poor creature, for surely Aragorn had never made a wrong or an immoral decision in the past.

As though he had heard Merry's thoughts, Aragorn walked up to them at that very moment. "It is long since Frodo departed, he said, his darkened eyes revealing his troubled thoughts, "The hour has passed and still he has not returned."

"Should we search for him, then?" Gimli asked, bounding to his feet in his eagerness to do something.

"I will go," Aragorn said, "Ready the boats for our return."

"Are you so sure he will choose the road to Mordor?" Gimli asked, his face showing frustration at being ordered to stay.

"Frodo knows his duty to the quest," Faramir said, "He will make the right choice. I will come with you, Aragorn."

Aragorn nodded slowly, and Merry could see he was resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder to where Legolas was angrily watching them. Although Merry had not over heard their conversation, he easily comprehended the subject of their disagreement.

He glanced over to Gollum's tree, wondering if the creature knew just how much trouble he was causing within their company, and gasped. For a terrible moment he was unable to speak. His heart pounded horribly and he did not breath.

"He's gone!" he finally managed, "Look, look there! see?"

The others turned in bewilderment to the direction of his mortification. The rope Gollum had been tied too was frayed and lay abandoned beneath the tree, he was gone.

* * *

Frodo had wandered long, and had come at last to the top of a high hill. Rowan trees grew there, and upon a rock he seated himself, feeling the weight of his burden more heavily than ever. The wind blowing in his hair felt refreshing, as did the small drops of rain that splattered against his cheeks from above.

He knew he should go back, and that the others would be worried about him. He was also sure of his decision, which seemed strange to him after so long pondering the consequences of the choice he would have to make at this moment. But he had seen, as he left them, the eyes of his companions, and how his own fears were reflected in them. They were all afraid, it would be foolish not to be, but they all accepted his choice now as the only way.

So he stood, and looked out one last time over the valley. There was a dark mass below him, a patch of blackish leaves perhaps. And as he looked his heart quickened. They seemed to be moving. He shut his eyes, willing away his foolish thoughts and chastising his imagination. But when he opened his eyes they were still there, and now he could make out their true forms.

He bit back a startled cry and he began backing away from the crest of the hill. He knew he should run, but his eyes could not leave the forms of the black Orcs swarming towards the base of Amon Hen in great lines. The leaders were issuing orders, Frodo could see their plan all two clearly as the group split into two halves, each taking a side of the hill.

His foot struck something as he moved backwards, and again he stifled a cry. He felt himself tumbling backwards, rolling down the slippery slope. The fresh rain did not aid him in his plight, for again the ground was wet and slicked with mud as he tried to grab onto something.

His back struck hard rock, and he stopped rolling abruptly. He struggled to control his breathing, feeling all the aches of his newly pained body. Then he struggled to his feet, feeling his ankle twist painfully beneath him. With a great effort of will he was able to remain standing, and catching the scent of the terrible black creatures swarming towards his friends at that very moment, he began to run.

Branches reached out to grab and trip him as he passed, and the rain-soaked earth beneath his feet slid precariously with each step. His Elvish cloak felt heavy with the thick mud that clung to it from his fall, but he knew better than to cast it aside. It was his only hope to remain unseen till he could reach his friends.

His wet hair fell before his eyes, blinding him for a moment. And in that moment a think root of a tree slammed into his ankle and he fell once more. This time he could not even find the strength to look around him, and when he heard footsteps running in his direction all he could do was shiver and hope the magic of the elves would shine upon him, and that he would not be seen.

He cringed as the steps slowed to a walk close to him, and he reached his hand beneath him to clutch the ring. If it came to the worst, and he was discovered, he would put it on and disappear, even if it meant drawing the eye of Sauron in his direction.

A hand clamped down upon his shoulder.


	21. Promises in blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 34 - Promises in blood**

Frodo flinched as the firm grasp on his shoulder pulled him to the side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes were squeezed shut painfully tightly in fear, and although his mind screamed at him to move, to place the ring on his finger, to strike out, he could not. As his body was shifted by his attacker, cold rain splashed onto his upturned face and he gasped in shock at the sensation.

Then came an exclamation that was not his own. His eyes flew open.

"By the Valar, Frodo, I thought you dead!" Faramir's strong hands gripped both his shoulders, and Frodo felt them tremble in relief. Frodo let his head sink back onto the wet ground, relaxing now he knew it was a friend who had discovered him. He felt himself shaking, so sure had he been of his own death.

He could feel Faramir's eyes searching him frantically for injuries, yet somehow he could not speak to assure him there was none.

In a moment Faramir discovered this for himself, "Speak, Frodo, what has happened?"

Hearing the imploring tone in the words Frodo swallowed, calming himself enough to say, "I am well... but..." He closed his eyes, recalling the repulsive scent and sight of the black creatures coming towards them.

He shivered, as though with cold. But Faramir's body leaning over him was sheltering him from the chilling rain, and he knew his reaction to be one of fear and panic.

He felt himself pulled upwards into a strong embrace, and only then, with such strength in the arms supporting him, could he speak of his fear. "Orcs," he whispered into Faramir's damp shoulder, "They come from the west side of the hill... even now it may be too late to escape... They will find the ring."

Keen grey eyes searched his own, seeing the fear and doubt that lay within. "Nay, your warning has come in time, we will tell the others."

Frodo was pulled to his feet, and immediately his sore ankle collapsed under the pressure. He stifled a cry, fearing any noise would bring the Orcs over the hill towards them. Faramir caught his arm, preventing the fall, and Frodo leaned on his for a moment, cursing himself for his weakness.

A sudden rush of thoughts filled his mind. The river was far from here, and he too weak and slow to reach it before the Orcs came upon them. Faramir could not carry him, that would be too slow.

There was only one solution, then. His blood ran cold at the thought, but the throbbing of his injured limb restored his resolution, and he brought forth the ring upon his palm.

There was a dreadful silence as they both stared at the beautiful object. The rain fell hard upon them both, and Frodo could feel its chill soaking through to his skin. The ring seemed warm upon his palm, as though the blustering rain could not touch it. It was hard to see through its beauty to the malice that lay within.

At last Frodo tore his gaze away, pushing his hand towards Faramir.

"Take it!" he said, "take it to Sam."

Again, silence. Faramir had dropped to his knees before him, and when Frodo saw the dark look that had crept into his eyes he almost pulled his hand away, forgetting his resolution of a moment before.

A million questions attacked his muddled senses. The ring was his, his! Only he could protect it, only he had the right to possess it. No one else could be trusted!

But even as his mind was buffeted by doubt, his hand did not waver, and he knew that he could not now have pulled away. He watched the other with fear and trepidation. Long he had trusted and admired this man, was the ring so evil that it could corrupt so noble a spirit with one glance?

It seemed to Frodo, even as Faramir stretched out his hand to take the ring, that there was a struggle raging within him. The hand he had stretched forth for the ring trembled, and drew back slightly, and then Frodo saw the man's eyes return to a gentle grey. With a shuddering sigh Faramir turned his eyes away.

His fingers, so close to Frodo's own, reached forward and closed the Hobbit's hand about the ring.

Frodo caught Faramir's mumbled words as he rose to his feet, turning his back on the object of temptation, "If Minas Tirith is lost ere I return to her, so be it. I have made my choice."

Frodo did not know how to feel. Relieved, because in the darkness the ring had brought to Faramir's countenance he had seen the foolishness of his decision, yet fearful, for he knew now that the quest was his alone to complete, and that there was only one road from here.

"They are coming," Faramir said suddenly, and Frodo glanced up at the tree line above. "Quickly, hide behind that fallen tree."

Faramir's hand on his shoulder pushed him aside to the place where a large tree had crashed down sideways. It was spotted in green moss that appeared the same shade as his elven cloak. If they crouched down behind it, with their cloaks about them, there was a chance they would not be seen.

He reached a up hand for Faramir to join him, but the man had stepped backwards and taken his bow in hand. "I will draw them away," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

But his heart cried out in protest, "No!"

At Frodo's desperate plea the man turned back to him "I made a promise to protect you and that which you carry, you would not ask my to break faith in this for my own safety?"

Frodo knew well now of the honour and pride of men, and that promises were not made lightly. He sighed, "No, but my heart would."

"Then listen not to your heart, and think only of duty. We may yet meet again." And he turned and was gone into the trees and the rain.

"Farewell," Frodo murmured, feeling that deep sadness that always accompanied thoughts of his future.

But his mournful contemplation was cut short and there was no more time to consider, for the voices of the Orcs were heard above him. Shouts echoed past his dulled hearing as Frodo threw himself behind the bough of the fallen tree. They were triumphant shouts, and they grew more distant as the violent wind tore their voices in another direction. Frodo could imagine them sighting the figure of the lone ranger on the hillside, and turning aside to give pursuit.

Frodo curled in on himself, trembling in guilt and fear. It was not right that such noble friends had to risk their lives to save him.

And from his small cocoon of swirling emotion he heard shouts of dying Orcs, and saw in his mind the blood that would fall from arrow wounds. He hoped, though knew somewhere inside that he was being optimistic, that the Orcs would be few in number, and that Faramir could kill them quickly and return to him. But the sheer volume of the Orc shouts betrayed his hope.

And then later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, as to him time seemed an endless pool spinning in circles, there was silence. His own breathing was suddenly terribly loud, and every breath piled more fear to upon his already petrified heart. He would have preferred shouts of pain and suffering to this horrible, endless waiting.

And then there was laughter, and the sound brought tears to his eyes. He knew what the rasping sound meant, and grief and anger rose within him. He half thought to draw his sword and cut out their cruel throats, but the word sacrifice came to his mind, and he knew that if indeed the man had died to save him, he would make that sacrifice worthy.

And so came his chance, and he had to take it and bare the pain of his injury till he had reached the others. Using the slippery branch to help him stand, he did not look towards the Orcs, he did not want to see what they might do to the body, he turned back towards the river.

Suddenly he was blinded by a shape slamming into him. He was thrown backwards by the weight, and his head struck the trunk behind him, hard. Even through the pelting rain he could make out the figure of Gollum above him, and his breath froze as he felt clammy fingers groping at his throat.

"Keep off!" he cried, struggling to peel the fingers away with his right hand, but Gollum was strong, far stronger than he seemed. The rain slicked their hands and Frodo felt himself losing control.

At last the fingers forced through his grip and reached beneath his shirt. "We wantss it!" came the violent hiss, "give it to us!"

Then suddenly the hands stilled, and the light that flared within Gollum's pale eyes warned Frodo that he had little time to escape.

"Tricksy Hobbit!" Gollum cried, "Where is it, my preciouss, the nasty Baggins has stolen it!"

Frodo clenched his left fist ever tighter around the ring, and tried to shove Gollum's sickening weight from atop him. He would not loose this fight! He could not! The frog-like legs were curled about his own, pressing him down into the mud with incredible strength, and the fingers tearing violently at his were beginning to win in their quest.

Then Frodo realised his only way out. Gollum would chase him to the ends of the Earth to claim his 'precious,' he would follow him to Mordor itself. He did not know Aragorn's plans for the creature, but at this moment, squirming beneath the pale body, he could only see one solution.

Freeing his right hand from the tangle of limbs, he reached for his belt...

Holding his breath, he tried not to feel the blade pass through Gollum's chest, and the dreadful shudders that racked the slender form, tried not to hear the pitiful whine that pre- emanated death. But when the body became limp above him, and the head with its wretchedly pitiable eyes lolled upon his chest, staring sadly, desperately, he could no longer distance himself. The blood spreading from the wound soaked through his clothes, and it was too horribly real.

With sudden violence he shoved the body away from his own, and rolled to the side. His stomach heaved, and emptied itself to mingle with the blood and the muddy earth.

There was silence. But it was a cursed silence where the pale eyes, still open in death, stared sadly at him. At last he looked towards that pale body, he who had been the means of draining a living creature of its life and hope. It was so small and pathetic, curled in on itself and so very still. And Frodo felt a sob rise in his chest once more, but refrained from expressing his grief. In that body he saw himself, tormented beyond endurance by that which he carried, becoming only a shadow of despair.

Then he lay upon the ground, resting his cheek numbly on the cold earth, and his tears mingled with the rain until they became one.

* * *

"This is folly!" Gimli grunted for the third time, feeling frustration beyond belief heat his blood, despite the falling rain. "Something runs amiss with them, I know it!"

Legolas sighed, lifting another load of baggage to the boat, "I fear you speak the truth," he said, "but we can do nothing until Aragorn and Faramir return."

"I should never have left him," Sam chastised himself, "and at the worst possible time, too!"

Merry, who Gimli deemed as the least agitated of them all, said, "There is nothing to be done now, but wait. It is only Gollum that worries me."

Gimli felt his heart clench painfully, beneath his anger and frustration was a deep guilt that he had placed Frodo in danger. If only he had kept a sterner eye on that slithering creature! He glanced back over at the tree to which Gollum's rope was still attached, and watched angrily as it slid among the moving mud like a snake.

"There is no use in thinking of what might have been," Legolas said, as though reading his thoughts.

Gimli opened his mouth to speak a harsh retort to the Elf who always seemed to be able to see into his head, but the Elf was gone! Pushing the Hobbits silently out of sight Legolas already had an arrow to his bow. "Take your axe in hand, my friend," came the quiet words, "someone approaches."

Gimli was surprised, he had heard nothing! He felt a rush of gratitude to the Elf, how fortunate it was Legolas had remained with them! Then suddenly he realised what he was thinking and growled at the paradox that lately seemed to torment his mind when the Elf was near.

He knew enough of Aragorn to know little was done by chance, and it was by design that the Elf's senses had remained here to aid them. Moving his hand carefully to his axe hilt he felt its comforting weight. Whether enemy or friend he would be ready!

Whatever it was, it was taking no care to be silent, for even Gimli now could hear the pounding footsteps and the heavy breathing his Elven companion had before detected.

And then it crashed through the trees and out onto the bank.

"Mr Frodo!" Sam's cry was loud enough for them all, so surprised were they that the frantic sounds they had heard had emanated from Frodo. In his surprise, it took another moment for Gimli to notice Frodo's bedraggled appearance and paling features.

Legolas, with his sharp senses, saw almost at once and rushed to the Hobbit's side, catching him as he collapsed. Laying him gently on the ground the Elf removed his hands and gasped at the blood on his palms. Gimli was stunned, and his first thought was that Frodo had been stabbed.

Having come to the same conclusion Legolas quickly worked open Frodo's tunic with able fingers. Blood mingled with rain and mud, making the task of finding a wound difficult and confusing. Gimli stared confusedly at the amount of blood that seemed to have no source.

It was another tension-filled moment before Merry, who seemed to be level headed in a dire situation, discovered Sting clasped tightly in Frodo's hand and the puzzle of the blood was explained.

"But who has he attacked?" Pippin gasped, seeing perhaps for the first time, the amount of blood a dead body could expel.

"Who else could it be but that sneaker Gollum?" Sam asked incredulously, "that filthy creature must have tracked him down and tried to take the ring."

"The ring!" Gimli exclaimed, "Prey somebody search him for it! Perhaps Gollum was not killed, and is even now making off with his prize!" Gimli thought it strange that he felt no pang of mistrust as Legolas plied apart Frodo's fingers to reveal the golden circlet shining there, as innocent as ever. Perhaps, the Dwarf thought, this is proof that I have actually begun to trust that infuriating creature.

"Ai, it is well," Legolas exclaimed, "it seems we have won this battle."

Gimli recognised satisfaction mingled with relief in the Elf's voice, and realised that his companion was pleased by the fact that Gollum had been killed. Gimli frowned, this was a side to Legolas of which he had been surprised and worried. It did not seem in the Elf's nature to kill needlessly or hate without reason.

Pippin spoke up from behind them, "But where are Strider and Faramir?"

"I'm sure they'll be alright," Merry assured his friend as he knelt by Frodo and took the Hobbit's bloody hand in his, "They're probably just still looking for..."

Merry gasped as his Frodo's hand tightened around his, and Gimli bent forwards to hear Frodo's mumbled words. The Hobbit's face was tense in horror, and Gimli had never seen Frodo in such agitation, his heart began to fear that there was something far more sinister than the plotting of Gollum at work here.

Legolas slipped a hand beneath Frodo's shoulder for support, but Frodo did not seem to be fully aware of himself, and it was as though he was trapped in a painful dream. "Orcs..." he muttered, "orcs..."

Legolas glanced up at Gimli, eyes wide. Glancing back at Frodo Gimli saw the Hobbit's grip on his cousin's arm tighten.

"Where are Aragorn and Faramir?" Legolas probed gently, trying to disguise the urgency in his tone. Gimli held his breath, and tried to ignore the feeling that something terrible had happened. As a dwarf he did not believe in predicting the future.

Merry winced as his skin was bruised beneath the grip.

"Dead..." Frodo whispered and was still.

There was a shocked silence as everyone tried to accept the words. Gimli's first reaction was denial, "No," he growled, "no." His heart shouted that it could not be true, it could not! Surely they would have heard something, been able to do something! It could not end like this!

The stillness of the others was unnerving, and only the trembling of Legolas' hand betrayed the life that still ran through the other's limbs.

Then suddenly the Elf grabbed Frodo's shoulder, wringing a small moan from the unconscious Hobbit. "Frodo," he shook him slightly, "Frodo, where are they?"

Gimli reached forwards and placed a heavy hand on the Elf's shoulder, and to his horror felt it tremble. "He is gone, lad, we cannot wake him."

Legolas turned angry eyes up at the Dwarf, and Gimli saw perhaps more emotion there than he had ever betrayed. He felt his own face searched, and then the fire in the Elf's eyes diminished, and he sighed.

"Pippin!" Merry's voice was startlingly loud in the silence, and Gimli whipped his head around to see what had happened.

Merry's face was pale in "He has gone!"


	22. Indecision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 35 - Indecision**

Aragorn wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a dirty sleeve. He stepped backwards, unconsciously berating himself for allowing the enemy to gain a foot. His hair, soaked with rain, hindered his sight, and his feet struggled to keep a grip on the muddy slope beneath his feet. He was distracted, his mind far from the battle with the Orcs before him. His mind tunnelled to Frodo, ill prepared for such an encounter, and to those left on the shore of the Anduin equally unaware that this black hoard of Orcs had surprised them from the opposite side of Amon Hen. The hill of sight! He almost laughed at the irony, he had been blind! His own sense of haste and tentative musings had brought this upon them.

Growling in frustration he raised his heavy sword arm for another bout. From every side the Orcs closed in, taking the place of those already slain. The dead were many, and Anduril shone a dull black against the falling sun.

He took a small step forward as though to engage the closest Orc in combat, but at the final moment he lunged to the side, taking another of the creatures off guard and thrusting his weapon through the dark gap left by the Orc's unprepared shield. Wrenching his blade out from the resisting flesh he felt the dead weight fall to join the black heap of the dead already lying in the mud at his feet.

Then the others were upon him and he was enveloped in a mass of black limbs and twisted weapons. Crying out in frustration as he struck at them, his sword found flesh more often than resistance. The shields the Orcs carried were heavy iron, splashed with red as a symbol of their dark master and his dominion, and although strong, they were cumbersome.

Aragorn knew well the weaknesses of mass produced armour. Between the arm and chest plates there were often weaknesses of which a carefully angled strike could pierce the black heart of an Orc. Yet Aragorn was in no mood to be careful or precise. His thoughts were as black as his enemy's skin, and his mood as foul as their stench.

His frustration at being separated and unable to aid his companions caused him agony of mind, and he had already sustained several blows to his arms and shoulder as a result of his straying thoughts. The rain splashed on his exposed skin and stung with its harsh touch.

Miscalculating another attack Aragorn stumbled as a heavy shield slammed into his side. He retained his balance, his feet slipping slightly on the muddied ground, yet felt the impact of the blow shoot up from his previously injured leg. Despite the rest in Lorien it still troubled him, and he had to lean his weight upon his other side to compensate. Striking out angrily at the Orc that was again attempting to throw him off his feet with its superior strength and bulk, Aragorn managed to sever the Orc's shield arm from the elbow. Black blood spattered his own arm and chest but he remained steady and thrust his sword into the side of the crippled Orc, felling him with one blow.

Turning back he realised with surprised relief that he was almost alone amid the circle of Sauron's dead creations. The orcs he could see through the trees would take a moment to reach him, and he took some of that time to steady his breath and wipe the sticky blood from the hilt of his sword.

Now he had time to choose his course he realised with yet more frustration that his attempt to aid the others would most likely result in him drawing more Orcs in their direction. Was his only purpose then, at this, the darkest moment of their quest, to stand aside and let fate take its course? How cruel that in his moment of trial he could do no more than abstain from bringing more danger to the paths of those he had vowed to protect! He clenched his fist and felt the wound he had sustained there tear and spill more blood upon the wet earth. The pain brought him back to himself.

'It doesn't seem like you somehow,' he could hear Sam saying in his mind, and Aragorn smiled slightly at the revelation. "No Sam, it would not do my character in credit in your eyes," he said under his breath, seeing now something he could do.

Frodo could be out there upon the slope somewhere, hiding until chance gave him an opportunity to move back to the shore. He could find him and guard him! Yet with archers hunting them he could in truth only bring Frodo into more danger. Would it be better to let Frodo make his own secret way back to the others?

Curse this indecision! He was to be a king, and a king with such indecisiveness would not last one day as a leader of men. Never before had he been so indecisive!

I will find him, he said at last, feeling tremendous relief of having finally a course of action. He turned his steps westwards, to the crest of Amon Hen.

* * *

"Pass that bag up here, Master Brandybuck. Quickly now, use those Hobbit muscles of yours." The Dwarf's tone was light, and his order meant to reassure, but Merry could feel nothing but empty shock. Pippin had left him. And he had not even had the chance to say farewell!

Numbly he lifted the bag and passed it with difficulty to the Dwarf who stood with his ankles in the dark waters of the Anduin. The sky was already dark, and no moon shone to light their task.

They had already laid the unconscious Frodo in the boat, and Sam sat with him now with his masters head resting on his knees. He was ashen faced, as was Merry felt himself to be.

Gimli had looked troubled ever since Legolas had left them in search of the others, promising to Merry that he would find Pippin and protect him. The Dwarf had tried to look confident for Merry's sake, but the Hobbit could easily see through the facade to the confusion beneath.

It all seemed like a dream. First Frodo had disappeared, then Aragorn and Faramir, now Legolas and Pippin. Although Frodo had returned to them his news had been a blow to each of them, Legolas most especially. And although the Hobbit could not resent the Elf for using Pippin as excuse to search for Aragorn, he was concerned that perhaps ill would come of it for others of their company.

Gimli ushered Merry into the boat, saying little. He seemed to be thinking deeply, and his brow was furrowed with anxious thought. When Merry had settled himself in the bow of the craft he handed him the paddle.

"Now you row hard, young Hobbit," Gimli said firmly, placing a strong hand on the Hobbits shoulder, "all the way to the other shore and do not stop for anything."

Merry opened his mouth in shock, surely the Dwarf was to accompany them! "Where are you going?" he stammered.

"The western shore is my road, young Hobbit, I see that now."

For a moment Merry thought he saw tears in the Dwarf's crinkled eyes, but then they were gone and once more glinting with determination.

"Wait for a while on the other side," Gimli advised, stepping backwards towards the shore, "some of us may follow. But keep out of sight!"

Merry heeded the warning and knew that the Dwarf was speaking directly to him. This was his time to prove his worth on this quest and he knew he must not fail, however much of his heart remained waiting for his cousin on the western bank.

The he remembered Pippin's words when they had escaped Moria, and knew that even as he took his charge of protecting Frodo on his quest, Pippin was endeavouring to repay the debt he felt towards Faramir.

And so they would part.

Gimli thrust the boat out into the lake with incredible strength, and Merry felt tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto the paddle he gripped tightly in his hands.

* * *

The darkness was a dense cloud about him as Legolas ran through the trees following what he hoped was Pippin's trail. There was no moon, and although he kept a keen eye out for signs that any of his companions had passed this way, he had so far discovered nothing.

His heart burnt in a keep panic that he kept trapped within himself. If he let it rise up to the surface he would be overwhelmed by grief or despair and he would lose the ability to focus on his surroundings.

Surely, he reasoned, Frodo had been in a great panic and agitation after his killing of Gollum, how could he have been sure of the death of his companions? In his mind this theory seemed sound, though his heart cried out that something black had tainted these woods, darker than any orc he had encountered this night. His arrow count was still fresh, though he had killed five of the black creatures in the distance he had travelled.

Glancing around through the darkened forest he was careful to check for any movement. There were archers among the Orcs, he knew, for he had found their arrows further back.

His eye suddenly caught something on the ground not far ahead, it was something pale for it shone out and caught his eye especially as nothing else had. He approached cautiously, squinting to make out the distorted object, and when he realised that it was a body he almost choked.

He had seen many dead, friends and enemies alike, but none had he ever wished dead so vehemently than this pale creature twisted and left rotting in the mud. He approached still, not knowing what possessed him to do so, and knelt beside the body of the one he had despised.

Gollum's face seemed so sad and innocent in death, and the eyes, animated and bright in life stared piteously at him now from the dead sockets. A dull sickness raged in his chest, and he felt terrible shame and remorse for every vengeful word, every thought in which he had denied this creature a second chance.

Reaching out he touched Gollum's shoulder and shuddered with the feeling of the dead cold skin. He whispered under his breath an apology, and felt the enormous inadequacy of his remorse. He saw now what Frodo had been trying to tell him, why Faramir and Merry had pitied Gollum for his misled past. The power of the ring had destroyed many lived, and Legolas saw now how his own hate and disgust for Gollum must have wounded Frodo deeply. Frodo saw Gollum as a vision for his own future, and his own scorn had made this image even more repellent.

He sighed, and stood, breathing anew. He had blundered, and knew it now keenly, yet he would not shelter beneath his shame. He would find the others and attempt to put things right once more.

He continued up the slope, shuddering at the feeling of those dead eyes that were still staring in his direction. He veered slightly to the right as he himself would have done if trying to lead an enemy away from the spot where Frodo lay hid. Orcs scattered the ground beneath his feet, white arrows of Lórien embedded in their chests and necks. He peered through the darkness ahead, his heat beating wildly. He knew either Aragorn or Faramir had been at this very spot, though he could not tell which because they had both carried arrows of Lórien is their quivers.

Frantically he searched the ground for any sign, and was dismayed to find dark arrows also, protruding from the ground with their tips buried in the earth. There had been Orc archers here too then, that did not bode well. As he himself knew well, the only sure defence against a flying arrow is a shield, and neither of his friends carried such a tool.

He moved forwards once more, and suddenly cried out as his foot slid on the slippery ground, and he had to scrabble backwards amid the mud to regain his balance. There was a drop directly before him, and he had not noticed it because of his intent perusal of the ground beneath his feet. He thought of Gimli for a moment and was relieved that the Dwarf was not there to observe such an amusing display of Elven grace.

Peering over cleft, Legolas' breath caught in his throat. In the slight moonlight that suddenly peeked out from beneath dark clouds he had caught sight of something that made his blood freeze.

Without consideration for his own safety he began scrabbling down the steep incline, his feet slipping down the muddy bank at a frightening speed. He landed on his knees at the bottom with a painful jolt, and scrambled on his knees to the body he had sighted from the top of the cliff.

Without knowing what he did, he hesitated. The man had his back to him, and with the dark hair and mud-caked cloak draped around the body Legolas could not tell whether it was Aragorn or Faramir he had discovered. Then he could stand it no longer, he grasped the shoulder that was turned from him and gently rolled the man upon his back. He gasped as his hand made contact with a large patch of sticky blood upon the shoulder, and felt a mixed rush of emotions as he beheld the pale face of Faramir. Legolas reached forward tentatively and felt the man's throat for a sign of life. The skin was cold beneath his fingers, but he felt the pulse was there. Legolas sighed, glad that he had come in time to prevent further bleeding. Faramir needed help, despite Legolas' minimal knowledge of healing he could see that much. Yet, he wondered, what evils would he cause by staying here. What if Aragorn were in more dire need of assistance? But looking down at the pale face beneath him he knew he could not leave Faramir's life to the mercy of fate, even if his heart cried out that Aragorn was in greater danger than he realised.

* * *

The pale light of the sky above the crest of Amon Hen emphasised the silhouetted monument that stood there, crumbling with years and battered by weather.

Aragorn approached the spot cautiously, checking each possible hiding place for signs of Frodo. The rain still splattered down upon his face and made his task difficult and tiresome. As of yet he had found no sign of any of his companions, and he was actually beginning to hope that they had escaped to the eastern shore before the orcs had discovered their presence. Perhaps Faramir had come across Frodo and brought him back to the boats, it was a possibility.

Aragorn squinted against the rain as he looked up to the dark building above. Perhaps Frodo had thought to hide himself on the roof. As he looked, his heart suddenly gave a jump as a black shape merged away from the silhouetted rock and stood facing him. It was no Hobbit.

Man sized it was, as far as he could tell, though he knew it was neither orc nor one of his companions. A sudden wave of dread washed over him and he almost cringed away in his fear. But knowing that he had been sighted and that there was nowhere to run, he stood firm, grasping Anduril tightly to contain the black hand that seemed to be tightening around his heart.

The figure upon Amon Hen moved once more, seeming to grow against the dark sky. A pale blade was in its armoured hand, and Aragorn recalled with a sickening horror their last encounter upon Amon Sûl when he had used fire to protect himself and the Hobbits. But he had no weapon now save his sword and his bow, and he had no doubt these would avail him little against such a foe.

"So," the voice from above spoke, "you have come at last."


	23. Bitter rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 36 - Bitter rain**

A shadow had fallen over Parth Galen, darker than the night's clouds. Aragorn now knew the source of that shadow, and looked up to the imposing Nazgûl with horror and awe. A wave of evil washed over him and almost enveloped him with its smothering cloak of fear. Yet he would now turn his back upon this meeting. He could not. There was nowhere to run, and turning away from his fear would only bring this black plague upon the rest of the company.

The black voice still hung on his dulled hearing, 'So you have come at last,' and he realised that the Nazgûl had been expecting him! He breathed deeply, not allowing his fear and horror blind him to fact that this creature could not read minds, nor could he even harm him further than the fetters on his dark master's desires allowed. The knowledge that he was equal to this dark king bolstered his spirits, and he gripped Andúril more tightly in his fist. Surely, as the dark minions of Sauron cowered beneath this terrifying leader, he, the heir of Isildur was stronger still. All the free people of Middle Earth stood at his back, and he was both the equal of elves, and the leader of men.

He stepped forwards, knowing that this confrontation had always been inevitable, though wishing it had come at a later hour. "You stand in my way," Aragorn said steadily, knowing that despite the distance between them the Wraith would hear his words. "I would look west, yet your foul darkness hinders my way." Aragorn's words were bold, and said with far more confidence that he felt.

"I sense your fear, king of Men," the Wraith hissed in anger, drawing nearer to the edge of the crumbling watchtower, its shadow looming over the place where Aragorn stood, "do not think to shelter behind your sharp tongue. Beware lest it cut your own throat, or that of your companions."

Aragorn felt his stomach tense, and a bitter taste rise at the back of his throat. He had been a fool not to already expect the dark king to have knowledge of the fellowship. Perhaps Frodo's body already lay at the feet of the Nazgûl, and the ring...

"You thought you were saving their miserable lives by facing me, did you not?" The Wraith laughed, a deep, horrible sound that cut through his mind like a blade. "I have waited long for this meeting, yet now I see the king of men is nothing more than a foolish child, weak because of his devotion to the living."

Again the Wraith laughed, and indeed Aragorn did feel like a child. His mind spun endlessly, repeating over and over the mistakes he had made that night. Frodo should not have been left alone, Gollum should have been more carefully guarded! Ai, what damage had his convoluted and indecisive mind caused?

The Nazgûl watched him silently, and Aragorn felt its enjoyment at the way his own guilt and confusion tortured him.

A sudden swell of rain whipped against his body, and he gasped at the sudden sensation. The Wraith seemed unmoved by the elements, but the startling touch of rain against his skin had awakened Aragorn to his situation. He suddenly wondered whether the Wraith really did hold something over him, or whether it was merely a lie spawned by the creature's forked tongue, and bolstered by false confidence and the knowledge that Aragorn would fear him. Perhaps the Nazgûl was merely playing with his loyalty and affection for his companions. Fear was a powerful enemy, and fear for loved ones perhaps the most deadly of all.

Aragorn felt the heavy cloud fear had formed upon his senses dissipate, and he realised also that in his haze of fear he had failed to notice the trees shifting behind him, and the black shapes of Orcs rimming the hill. He was surrounded.

"You may walk away from here free, if you wish it," the Wraith said quietly, its black form shrinking slightly against the sky.

Aragorn did not move. Anticipating the cruel choice, he had began frantically forming the possibility of the Wraith already having taken his companions captive. Choosing to save himself now would surely mean death to them. Could he take the risk the that the Nazgûl was lying?

Suddenly something dark and thin struck the earth close to Aragorn's feet. He steeled himself not to flinch from the object he had so often avoided in battle. He stooped to retrieve it, and raised it up, holding it gingerly between his fingers. It was an orc arrow, and the metal head glinted wickedly with fresh blood.

Raising his eyes to the dark king who had flung the arrow down to him, he realised that he had been given the assurance he had so desperately craved. The solid walls he had built as a defence for his mind crashed down around him. The blood was red, and freshly drawn, falling from the foul arrow-head to mingle with the rain splashing upon his shaking palms.

At that terrible moment there was a series of shouts behind him, and a familiar voice that turned Aragorn's blood to ice.

An Orc moved out from the circle of trees, dragging with him a small resisting figure brandishing a short sword. Blood spread from a small wound on the arm of the Orc who was holding the Hobbit, but he seemed not to have noticed the Halfling's attack. He was thrown forwards towards Aragorn, and the Orc retreated back a few paces, as though deeply afraid of his own captain.

"Aragorn!" Pippin cried upon seeing a familiar face, "forgive me, I never thought to..." The Hobbit trailed off, staring with horribly wide eyes over the Ranger's shoulder.

Aragorn turned his head slightly, clenching his fists in agitation at what he knew must follow. The Wraith had descended from the dark watch tower, and now stood only a few feet away. He could feel its evil more strongly now, and it seemed to permeate his clothes and skin and work its way into his bones like maggots. Pippin felt it too, and seemed frozen in horror at the sight of the black hooded figure.

Aragorn turned back upon the Wraith, feeling his face grow hot in anger and frustration. Pippin's appearance had cursed him with responsibility, the Nazgûl would utilise his affection for his companion. There was no hope.

"Would you not turn your back, king of Men?" the Wraith asked with such obvious pleasure that Aragorn's skin crawled at the sound.

He did not answer. There was nothing to say. Walking away from here would condemn Pippin to a painful death, and if he could do anything in his power to prevent that, so be it.

"This is not the Halfling," the Nazgûl murmured, circling the two figures with interest. "I see it in your face, and thus he is no use to me." The Wraith waved his hand to the Orcs a little behind Pippin, "kill him."

Aragorn stepped toward the dark king with frantic haste, failing to hide the panic from his eyes. "Do not kill the Hobbit," he said in a voice seemingly unlike his own. "he is nothing to you, or your master."

"And that is the reason he will die." the Wraith's voice was without emotion, and Aragorn knew he was loosing this fight.

Andúril fell from his grasp and struck the earth with a dull thud. He lowered himself to one knee, taking the blow to his pride without protest. "I will submit if he remains unharmed."

"No, Aragorn!" Pippin cried, fighting against the Orc who had grasped is arm. Aragorn cringed at the sound of the Hobbit's distress, but knew there was no other way.

The black sound of laughter echoed over the hill and left silence in its wake. "The king of men bends his knee before me!" the Nazgûl retrieved Andúril lifted it as though it were its own. "So be it, you come quietly and the Halfling lives."

Aragorn closed his eyes in relief, clasping his hand tightly around the arrow in his hand. Suddenly he turned, his eyes sweeping over Pippin in a search for injury. There was nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. Who then, had been injured by this arrow?

The Nazgûl had turned his back upon them, shouting orders to the orcs in the black speech that made even such black hearted creatures as they tremble in fear. "Curunír will enjoy matching his wits with your own," he said to Aragorn in passing. "Yet I am afraid you will lose this battle, king of Men."

Aragorn said nothing in reply, the reprieve granted on behalf of Pippin made him wary enough to sport no more words with the dark king.

"I will find your companion on the west bank, will I not?" The

Nazgûl ran an armored hand over Pippin's dirty cheek as he spoke, and Aragorn saw the Hobbit's face lose colour as the Black Breath began to take effect.

"Enjoy your swim," Pippin managed to murmur as the Wraith turned its back upon them, before slipping to the ground in a faint.

Aragorn felt heavy arms descend on his, and he was shoved onto his stomach. Peering up as far as his position allowed, he saw the metal boots of the wraith moving away from him through the bitter rain.

* * *

The trees were moving. Faramir could sense black shapes shifting and looming closer behind him. The Orcs were in pursuit, and he knew with a growing dread that stole his senses that the darkness of his surroundings meant he would not be able to distinguish the dark bodies of the Orcs from the trees. But he could hear them at his back, and that was all the more terrifying.

The glade in which he moved was enveloped in a tight shadow, darker and more stifling than the place in which he had bidden Frodo to hide himself and the ring... The ring! It taunted his senses still! His mind was slowed by a terrible feeling of loss, and even as he drew the Orcs away from the cursed object, it called to him with its sick promises to return and claim it for his own.

He shuddered. He knew now his own venerability to its evil. Even the very best intentions and dreams, a father's love, a country's salvation, were twisted into putrid desires by its evil. He knew well that a man with a more violent nature than his own would have killed to gain such a treasure. He could only breath his relief that each of the Fellowship had been strong enough to resist the temptation.

There was a sudden sound, and he threw himself to the ground almost without thinking. Wincing as his left knee struck hard rock he saw the black arrow strike the ground several metres in front of him. He barely breathed before another arrow from a different direction slammed into the earth to his left, spraying mud up from the ground like fireworks. Then he scrambled to his feet and bounded forwards, hoping desperately that he could bring himself out of range, if only for the moment he needed to take aim.

Steeling himself, he turned and raised his bow. Here perhaps he had the advantage over the Orcs. While a swordsman might have found himself riddled with arrows in this situation, Faramir's training as a ranger and archer in Ithilien

enabled him to determine the most probable position for an archer, and therefore anticipate the direction of attack.

The slight rise to his left struck him as a possible vantage point for an enemy archer, and he knew himself to be correct as the sound of bowstring being released. He stumbled backwards, gasping as the arrow embedded itself in the place he had been standing. He raised his own weapon, and felt the comforting weight of Orophin's bow in his sweaty palm as he drew back on the taught string. Ignoring the slight ache in his back from the wounds he had sustained in Moria, he slipped into the calm he needed to steady his aim.

The arrow flew straight, and was rewarded with a cry of agony. Hearing the Orc's body slump to the forest floor, Faramir did not allow himself a moment of relief. Squinting ahead into the dark trees he felt his blood rise at the dark shapes that moved towards him at a great pace. These were no archers, for they lacked stealth in their thunderous footfalls, and the dull sheen of metal through the trees revealed them to be soldiers.

White arrows pierced their skulls and throats as each revealed their position. It was no difficult task for Faramir to pick them off one by one as he would when staging an ambush in Ithilien. But when another black arrow found its mark in the body of an Orc close to his feet he knew himself to be the hunted, not the hunter.

The earth slipped precariously beneath his feet as he shuffled backwards, and the weight of his cloak, soaked with mud and rain hindered his movement as he sought to fire another arrow towards the next invisible foe. Suddenly he realised the ground behind him fell away sharply into the crest of a precipice. He had been so distracted by the orcs that he had not even sensed the danger before it was too late. Even as he leant his weight forwards and scrabbled in the mud with his free foot to retain his balance, the earth beneath his other foot began to shift and slide.

A noise invaded his panicked senses, and he barely had time to realise his peril before the arrow slammed into his shoulder, throwing off his already teetering balance. Pain flowered through him, and in that vague moment he realised he had been hit. Then he was falling, tumbling down the jagged slope. The world spun, and he barely felt the rocks and plants that tore at his reeling form. It was a seemingly endless tumble, in which his grasping limbs and clutching hands were only further battered for their trouble.

Then everything was still. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Faramir felt the shock in his mind slowly subside. And then there was only pain. He was on his side, and opening his eyes through the red haze of blood that clung there, he saw the thick black shaft still protruding from his shoulder. How it had not broken in the fall, he knew not, but somehow seeing it lodged deep in his own flesh made his body shake with nausea, and his mind reel out of the range of logical thought.

The sound that broke him from his haze of pain and delirium was that of footsteps. Someone was making their way down the slope towards him. He tried to roll onto his back in an attempt to see who was approaching him, but the movement sent more stabs of fire through his arm, and a dull ache to his head. His faint hope that is was Frodo come to find him was replaced by fear in the next moment, when he recalled that there was another orc lurking above somewhere, the one who had shot him...

He was left in doubt no longer, however, when the footsteps neared and the sound of heavy breathing grated upon his mind. Then an iron-shot boot slammed down upon his chest, ripping him onto his back with such violence that the arrow shaft shifted in the wound. Gasping for breath that would not come, he writhed beneath the crushing weight of the Orc's boot, struggling to regain some semblance of self control.

The Orc took one look at him, as far as Faramir could tell through blurry eyes, and called something course and insensible up the hill to another Orc who stood there. Faramir could not see far enough into the gloom to see the other creature, but it seemed to have retreated as the Orc above him turned back his attention to the man beneath him. The foot was lifted, and Faramir instinctively curled his body to the side. Violent coughing took hold of him, and in the midst of the haze through the jerking spurts of pain, he wondered how the Orc would kill him. He spared a thought for Frodo, and could only hope that the other Orc who had retreated had not discovered the Hobbit's hiding place.

His hand brushed against something as he gripped the edge of his cloak against the pain, and he recognised the sword gifted to him by Galadriel. He had lost his bow in the fall, but this one weapon might give him the chance to secure Frodo's safety.

The Orc's foot slammed into his back when he began to lie still once more. Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving, and of the impact of the Orc's metal boot, he grasped the hilt of his blade in his right hand and swung the blade behind him, into the Orc's unprotected ankle.

The blade went deep, and Faramir felt warm blood spilling onto his hand, before the Orc howled in pain, and ripped his leg away before Faramir could drive it deeper. It was not enough. The Orc would not die from this small wound, but perhaps the pain would drive away the thought of searching the area for other enemies.

Faramir hoped it was so, and struggling to keep the cries of pain from leaving him as the Orc roughly threw him on his back once more, he hoped also that his death would not be in vain, and that his father would take some pride in his son for dying in defence of his realm.

Then the Orc grasped the arrow-shaft and the pain as it was wrenched from his body rendered him senseless.

* * *

Faramir shuddered beneath Legolas' touch as he tentatively probed the bloodied wound upon the young man's shoulder.

It had been made by an arrow, he had discovered, and had thought, on first sight, that Faramir must have removed the arrow himself, or that it had been torn from the wound in his fall. But upon finding a streak of black blood upon Faramir's cloak, and discovering with dismay that the Ranger's wrists had been crudely bound together, Legolas knew the Orcs had not simply left the man to die.

This was black news, for it meant they would return for the body. Legolas sat back on his heels, clenching his jaw in agitation. He was no healer, and even from his perusal of Aragorn's skills, his own talent for the healing arts had remained minimal.

Dispite his lack of expertise he knew that loss of blood could be fatal, and from the torrent of sticky fluids that tainted the ground and his own hands a deep crimson, he knew his first task was to stop the bleeding. But he had nothing with which to work! All the baggage had been left upon the shore with Gimli and Hobbits.

For a moment he considered running for help, but with the thought that the orcs might at any moment return to carry off the body convinced him that he could not take that risk.

Taking his knife from his belt he bent over the body. With trembling fingers he placed the knife against the thin ropes binding Faramir's wrists and carefully severed the strands.

Then swallowing uncomfortably he looked to the shoulder injury. Helplessness rushed over him as he gazed at the gushing wound, and he felt the terrible inadequacy of his own skills.

He breathed deeply, and gently touched the torn leather of Faramir's jerkin, prying the breach in the material wider for a better view of the wound. Warm blood gushed over his fingers and he felt the man's body tense beneath him. Realising he would have to remove the barrier of the material, he reached for his knife.

Faramir's body suddenly jerked beneath his hand, and Legolas drew back in surprise and alarm. Gently laying his palm flat against Faramir's right shoulder he firmly pushed the trembling body back to the earth. The man's eyes suddenly flew open, and Legolas was surprised and disturbed by the depth of turmoil he saw staring back at him.

Again the body shifted beneath him, trying to dislodge the hands causing him such pain. Legolas winced as he held the shoulder to the ground, realising that Faramir likely thought him to be an Orc. Some dark memory seemed to be moving across Faramir's countenance

"Dartha ah enni," [stay with me] he murmured as he slid the knife into the thick leather, and began working it to one side. The stuff cut with relative ease, and it was the trembling of his own fingers, usually so firm and still on a bowstring, that truly impeded his movements.

He was almost through his task when Faramir's blood soaked hand gripped his own. Legolas looked down, startled, and was pleasantly surprised to see recognition in the pale face.

"Legolas?"

He grasped the weak hand and lowered it back to the other's chest. "I am here."


	24. Nowhere to run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 37 - Nowhere to run**

Leaves tickled his face as Merry crouched over his cousin's limp form. Sam hovered near by, his eyes showing the helpless Merry himself felt coursing through him.

Frodo's face was pale and streaked with blood and dirt. He looked so thin and drawn, and Merry used a clean edge of his cloak to brush away the worst of the stains, as though it could restore his cousin's health. He wondered at Frodo's bravery, and thought how he himself would not have had the courage to fight with Gollum and still keep the ring safe.

He felt another overwhelming rush of grief drown him with the thought of the last few hours. How could he ever hope to be as brave as his companions when he felt like crying over Pippin's departure?

"I should never have left him," Sam muttered for the twentieth time.

Merry sighed. They all had regrets, but dwelling on them would not right anything. As soon as Frodo woke they would have to move on a little way towards the rocky hills they could see behind them. Gimli had named them Emyn Muin, an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks. Sounds inviting, Merry thought wryly.

The air seemed unnaturally silent around them, as though the orcs who had been hunting them on the western bank had taken a break in their destruction to eat morning tea. Yet Merry did not like the stillness, there was a sense on impending disaster in it that made his flesh creep.

He did not have long to wait before his supposition proved sound. Noises echoed from the far bank, and as Merry and Sam watched wide-eyed, they saw the stout form of Gimli emerge from the trees, holding aloft his axe.

Hope flowered through Merry at the appearance of a dear friend. The Dwarf's back was to them, and Sam stood to wave him over. All at once a flash of horror shot through Merry and he launched himself at Sam, knocking the other Hobbit to the ground with an exclamation. He shoved his hand over Sam's mouth, and listened.

A cry from Gimli... then the sound of axe hitting sword. The orcs had followed the Dwarf to the shore!

Sam managed to writhe out from Merry's restraining hands. "What are you doing!" he exclaimed, gasping air. Then he caught sight of the orcs and froze. Then glaring at Merry he hissed, "We have to help him!"

Merry buried his hands in the soft earth by his knees, his knuckles white against the dark ground. He was hesitating. His heart raged within him, screaming out the terrible betrayal it would be to abandon Gimli. But what could they, two Hobbits, do against an army of orcs? And they were on the other side of the river! Rowing across now would draw the enemy towards Frodo and the ring. There was no choice.

Sam had seen this too, though he was less willing than Merry to abandon his hope. "Surely," he hissed, "we can't just leave him!"

"We must!" Merry exclaimed, "what possible use could we be to him?" It hurt. Even saying it with so much conviction to Sam did not convince him that it was the right choice.

Sam's shoulders slumped as yet another regret was heaped upon them.

And so they sat and listened and cringed as the battle raged. Every moment Merry felt the guilt and betrayal swell within him, and he wondered whether he would ever forgive himself.

Finally there was silence, and they both dared to peek out over the bushes to the scene of battle.

The orcs had gone, disappearing back into the trees. Gimli was nowhere to be seen, and the two remaining boats had been smashed... Merry felt his heart plummet, for surely there was no way for the others to follow. They were now truly alone. Merry hoped with all his heart that the Dwarf's absence meant he had been taken alive. How could he live with himself if it was not so?

And then Merry seemed to hear the orcs barking orders to each other, yet it was strange, for they could not be seen on the far bank, which was a great distance from the three hobbits, and the wind was not blowing in their direction.

Sam was also glancing around them, trying to determine from whence the sounds originated. And then a groan was heard, and Sam was rushing to Frodo's side.

"Mr Frodo," he murmured, "Mr Frodo."

Merry was about to drop to his knees beside the others when the wind blew suddenly across his face, and a putrid smell reached him. He almost choked as the stench invaded his nostrils, and dropping to his knees he followed the direction of the wind with his eyes.

Grabbing onto Sam's hand he gestured to the rocky path-like area above them. The green bushes surrounding where they sat hid the area somewhat, but the dark shapes approaching were plain to see. These orcs were larger than any he had seen, even the ones from the mines of Moria seemed small in comparison. As Merry peered through a small gap in the branches he saw they they walked almost like men, without the bent, loping stride of those unaccustomed to living in caves. A recollection suddenly swept over him, and he was back in the caves beneath Caradhras with Legolas and Pippin. There had been an Orc there who resembled these creatures. High in stature, and marked on the face with the same white shape, like a hand.

After a moment of hopeless hesitation, Merry pulled at the tie of his cloak, and swept it off. Kneeling by the others he did his best to pull it over all three of them, hoping the orcs would simply pass by without noticing them.

But they were out of luck, for the sounds grew nearer, and Merry heard them speaking in their black language, arguing fiercely. He clenched his jaw, trying to contain the trembling of fear in his body. What would happen if they were found? If the orcs discovered Frodo was carrying the ring?

Merry peeked beneath the fold of the cloak that did not quite cover him, feeling the trembling of Sam's body pressed close to his. He almost jumped when his eyes met with the metal of an Orc's boot, standing not less than a metre away. Shutting his eyes he knew all he could do was hope.

His hearing became acute, and he heard every word spoken by the orcs, every shift of a boot on the rocks, every bird call. Bird call? That was how it had sounded, yet not quite…

The orcs had also quietened down, obviously disturbed by the strange sound, and with relief that made him dizzy Merry heard the Orc's foot move away from them and tread back up to the main group.

Then Frodo groaned before either he or Sam could stifle the sound. Merry held his breath, waiting for the cloak to be ripped off their backs. But the stampeding feet never came, and instead came a great cry from overhead. None of them could see what had made the sound, but the fearful coldness that gripped at their hearts and made them want to sink into the earth upon which they lay was more information than they needed. The Nazgûl had returned!

Frodo was gripping Sam's arm with white knuckles, and Merry knew how vulnerable they were from the air. But Merry remembered that the Wraith had relied rather upon smell than sight, and perhaps with the hoard of orcs so near to them their scent would be disguised.

And so it proved. Merry heard the great beat of wings recede and with it went the echoes of orc voices. After a moment of fearful waiting he dared to peek out from beneath the cloak, and gasped when he saw that the orcs had disappeared. They must have been frightened off by the Wraith's passing. He sighed, nodding to Sam who also breathed out in relief.

Then all at once the cloak was whipped from their body's and they were lying exposed beneath the hooded figure who stood above them.

* * *

While it was no longer raining, the wind that blew across his body was bitterly cold and chilled Pippin's bones as he slowly awoke from unconsciousness.

His body ached as though he had been stepped upon by an Oliphant, and somewhere inside he felt that something was terribly wrong.

No sensible thought came to him, save a sense that something had crawled inside his body, like an ant in his clothes, yet somehow frighteningly deeper. It scared him more than the pains in his body and the lack of memory of where he was or how he had come here.

The wind swept over him again, slipping beneath his cloak and touching his skin like ice. He realised he was lying on his back on hard earth, and that there were sounds other than the wind. Voices, harsh and loud, grated upon his hearing and he opened his eyes.

The sight that met him was that of a nightmare. Silhouetted against the dark sky were the figures of orcs, their grotesque forms blots on the landscape. As far a Pippin could reckon from their surroundings, they had left the forests of Parth Gallen and were now crossing open plains. Pippin felt a sudden regret that he had not taken the chance to study maps in Rivendell as Frodo had done. Frodo... Had he been captured also? And the ring..?

He groaned as he shifted positions, feeling the aches of his cramped body, and that strange dark feeling inside him come to the fore. His hands were bound together in front of him, and he groaned again as he tried to manoeuvre his hands out of the tight ropes.

"Quietly, little Hobbit," a gruff voice said close to his ear.

Pippin jumped, and it took him a moment to recognise the familiar voice. When he did so he was shocked. "Gimli!"

"Aye," the Dwarf replied quietly. "Slowly now, you've taken a nasty bump on the head."

Pippin was absurdly comforted by the Dwarf's presence. Surely it would have been better if Gimli had been free, but the gruff creature had always shown such affection and protectiveness towards the Hobbits, Merry and himself especially, that it was a comfort to have him near.

He squirmed until he could see Gimli's face. The red beard was caked with dried mud, a fact that in any other situation might have been comical, but the Dwarf's eyes were more dark than Pippin had ever seen them.

"Is Legolas here too? And the others?" he whispered, taking to heart Gimli's warning to remain quiet.

"The Elf went looking for you, young Hobbit, yet it appears I have beaten him to the prize." Gimli tried to smile reassuringly, but failed miserably. "We have only Aragorn for company."

Pippin cringed. That blunder had been his alone. If it had not been for him Aragorn would have been free to fight his way out and would have escaped. The memories were flooding back to him now, and a cold wave of horror immersed him at the recollection of the Nazgul's hand brushing his cheek. Somewhere inside him that dark, cold feeling redoubled in intensity, and he shivered violently.

A moment later, or perhaps longer, for he seemed trapped in a void of fear of which time held no meaning, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He jerked, then remembered that Gimli was beside him. He let out his breath in relief, suddenly feeling cold all over and tired beyond his strength.

"Sleep now," Gimli said. "We will be moving again soon, and you will need all your strength for the journey."

"Where are we going?" Pippin asked, closing his eyes slowly.

"To Isenguard."

* * *

The sky seemed to have shed all its tears, and Legolas felt relieved. The memory of the horrific struggle he had played out to bring Faramir's health back to the stage where he felt he could run to the shore for supplies and perhaps aid, was still fresh. The rain had swept over them the entire time, and even Legolas, who rarely felt the elements, had cursed the sky for its cruelty.

Legolas' cloak now flapped raggedly in the wind, the lower regions having been sacrificed in desperation to staunch the flow of blood. He was uneasy in his mind over leaving Faramir alone, but he had needed supplies, and the help of Aragorn, if he could find his friend. Memories of the anger in their parting rushed back to him, and he sorely regretted his selfish actions. He had been right to be cautious, yet dreadfully wrong in the way he had expressed his worries, turning to hate and dark thoughts above logic.

And then he had reached the shore, and found it deserted. He did not know what to think. One boat had gone, and several bundles of belongs gone with it. Surely this was a good sign. Frodo must have been taken to the eastern shore with one companion at the least. The ring was safe.. for now.

The other two boats had been smashed beyond recognition. Wooden shards and remnants of the once elegant Lorien crafts were splinted and strewn across the muddy shore. Bags left abandoned had been carelessly thrown to the earth, and Legolas picked amongst them, searching for food, and something with which he could bind Faramir's wound.

He found Aragorn's pack amongst the others, and cringed as his fears were confirmed. His friend had not returned, or perhaps had been prevented from doing so. He picked up the bag, perhaps more for sentimental value than from what it held. But as he rummaged inside he discovered a small package of healing plants, and thought perhaps they might be useful to ease Faramir's pain.

His own thoughts had turned quickly towards pursuit, and finding a sign of what had befallen the others of the fellowship. But he could do nothing with Faramir injured and weak. The selfishness of his thoughts nagged at him, but he could not help feeling frustrated over his situation.

He turned his back on the shore and plunged back into the trees. Perhaps he would return there later to search for a trail, but now he knew he must return to Faramir. It had been a great risk leaving him to fend for himself, however much the man had assured him he would be well.

Guilt stabbed deeply into him as he saw Faramir's dark pain filled gaze in his mind. The young man had plainly seen the way he itched to search for signs of the others, and he had given him to opportunity to do so. Legolas gritted his teeth together in agitation. Perhaps he should not have left the young man in his pretense to find supplies.

The empty feeling in his boot made him run all the faster, reminding him that his knife would do little to aid Faramir against their enemy. He had found Faramir's bow a few metres away from the Ranger's body, but he knew that with his shoulder barely usable a bow would be no protection.

Manoeuvring the bag to sit higher on his back he moved between the trees, attempting to place himself in relation to the place he had left Faramir. He sighted the precipice from the side long before he came to it. He was approaching from the east, and he could see the place where it began to rise. He remembered his panicked scramble down the steep decline, and winced as a sharp ache in his hip, that he had not known to be there, flared in pain at the memory.

Squinting into the growing darkness he endeavoured to distinguish the shape of the man against the tree by which he had left him. The silhouette of the gnarled trunk seemed almost to jump out at him in its loneliness, and Legolas felt a burning rush of fear flood over him. Where could he have gone! Surely in such a weakened state he could not be far! Unless the Orcs had come...

He thought to call out Faramir's name as he neared the place, but thought twice before doing so. If Orcs had come to take Faramir's body, the young man might have hid himself.

He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and considered for a moment. It was dark, and there were many shadowed places in which the man might have hidden.

Then a hand grabbed at his wrist, and he was almost jerked off his feet. He knew well the grasp of those fingers upon his own, for they had held him like a vice all through that long ordeal of removing the arrow head.

He dropped softly to his knees, pressing himself against the small niche in the wall as Faramir has done. He had no opportunity to express his relief at the other's safety, however, for the man pressed his hand over his lips as a gesture of silence.

Legolas was suddenly frightened by the intensity of Faramir's gaze, and by the white knuckles with which the man gripped Legolas' knife.

He opened his mouth in confusion but Faramir waved his good hand to cut him off. "Something draws near," he said, so low that Legolas barely caught the words. "Listen."

Legolas did listen, but heard nothing. He thought that perhaps Faramir was suffering from the effects of his injury, and had simply imagined the orcs returning. But the fact that the man had dragged himself all the way to the lower end of the precipice for an imagined fear seemed unbelievable. So he tried harder, and realised that his mind had been playing such havoc with his thoughts and fears that he had ignored his inner senses. So with a breath he forced himself to focus, and he felt it almost immediately. A dark creeping sensation touched him with such malevolence that he marvelled that he had not felt it sooner.

He looked to Faramir, and saw that the young man's face was white and ashen - as pale as when he had removed the arrow from his shoulder - and the blood upon it seemed dark against the unusual whiteness of the skin. Legolas knew his own face must look similar.

He had instinctively gripped his bow in his hand, though he knew not what hunted them. He only knew that it was no orc or wild creature. Only something with a will as dark as night could exude such evil, and only twice had Legolas felt the like of it before. Once, on a scouting trip to Northern Mirkwood, when he and he companions had passed by Dol Guildor, and once three nights before, when he had shot the Nazgul from the sky onto the western bank...

He heard Faramir gasp at the same instant as himself, and knew they had come to the same conclusion. He felt a fool that he had not understood sooner. He had felt the darkness of the place, and even warned Aragorn, yet had been too preoccupied to realise what it had meant!

And now... What hope was there for them if the Nazgul was hunting them like beasts? He knew now why his fears for Aragorn had been so vivid. In some part of his mind he had known! Yet he had not listened!

Then came the cry of the Nazgul, and it echoed over the whole of Parth Gallen, emanating fear and darkness. Legolas resisted the urge to press his hands over his sensitive ears to block out the foul sound, but he fingered his bow instead. He knew it was unlikely he would receive another chance to bring down the Wraith but he was determined to try.

Again the cry, then the black shape appeared above them, high up in the dark sky. Legolas endeavoured to sight the beast through the canopy of trees above them, but they were so dark against the similarly black sky that it was an impossible task.

And then it crossed the moon.

"There are two of them!" Faramir hissed.

"Nay," Legolas shook his head, his Elvish sight giving him the advantage over the man. "There is but one stead. But there are two Wraiths!"

Legolas resisted the urge to shudder as the beast flew above them. Then he realised something that turned his blood to ice. "The Hobbit's have crossed the river."

Faramir stared at him in horror.

Legolas shook his head, "There is nothing we can do. The Boats are destroyed."

Faramir leaned his head back against the dirt wall behind them, and if it were possible his face became paler still.

"Here," Legolas said, standing, "let me bear some of your weight down to firmer ground." He cringed as he watched Faramir struggling to his feet, stubbornly refusing aid. "Nay, I can manage."

"Why refuse aid when I offer it freely?" Legolas asked, frustration rising within him at the stubborn of the man.

"You once refused my aid..."

With amusement he had not felt at the time, Legolas recalled their first meeting, when Faramir had collided with him on the balcony in Imladris.

"Then 'twas you who had knocked me down, and a matter of principle to refuse aid."

Faramir laughed, and it seemed to Legolas that a great weight lifted from his mind at the sound. Or perhaps it was something that had stood between them for so long beginning to fall away.

"Are all elves so proud?" Faramir countered steadily, but he faltered in his step and Legolas caught his arm before he fell..

Legolas took care where he positioned his feet next as he considered his answer. He smiled suddenly and turned his head away, mumbling, "are all men so clumsy?"

If the light had been stronger Legolas was sure he would have seen Faramir blush. Evidently the son of the Steward had never before been accused of clumsiness. "What was it you said to your Elvish companions when I knocked you down?" Faramir asked as they reached the small clearing below the cliff.

Legolas smiled again. The thought of the question plaguing the man all the way from Rivendell, and of he being too proud or embarrassed to ask, was highly amusing.

Legolas regained a dignified silence, letting the young man stew a little longer as he helped him to sit with his back against the tree.

Then he dug into Aragorn's bag for a spare cloak, and felt a slight pain that he could do nothing for Aragorn until Faramir could travel. But promising himself that the next day he would devote himself to finding what had become of their other companions, he was able to focus again upon making them comfortable for what remained of the night.

"I will have to re-bandage your shoulder," Legolas said, removing the strips of cloth and setting them upon the green cloak.

"Legolas," Faramir muttered darkly, "do not think me a slow witted fool. I am still waiting for an answer!"

Legolas could not resist the smile that tugged at his lips, "I said that your clumsiness could equal that of a dwarf tripping over his own beard."


	25. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 38 - Trust**

Sam fumbled with his blade, his shaking fingers finding no purchase on the weapon.

The cloaked figure had made no move to attack, but that was all the more suspicious regarding his sudden appearance.

"Keep back!" Merry cried, his success at drawing his sword having been more accomplished than Sam's had been. "Don't come any nearer."

The figure did not move, and it was only when Sam struggled to his feet, shrugging off the useless cloak that had failed to hide them, that the figure leaned forward, surveying Frodo's body over Sam's shoulder.

"Is your companion in need of healing?" the man asked (for it seemed from the voice that it was simply a man). The tone of voice was younger than Sam had expected, perhaps the age of Legolas had the Elf been a man, but the voice was less melodious, and possessed that strange quality Sam had heard in both Aragorn and Faramir at times. Something the coarse men at Bree had never shown.

Despite Sam's initial pleasant revelations about the stranger, he still had enough sense to question the man as to why he was wandering the forests of Amon Hen. "What's your business lurking about, then?" he spluttered with far less grace or appearance of intelligence than he had intended.

"Lurking?" the stranger repeated, and Sam imagined the man's brows rising in surprise beneath that dark hood. "I had expected to find a party of eight as welcome, not to have had the necessity to 'lurk' beneath the cover of trees to rescue three Halflings from an army of Orcs"

"Rescue?" Sam exclaimed, "Fat lot of good you were, hiding until the enemy were gone, twere the bird calls and the black rider that saved us."

"Those 'bird calls' were of my making, yet I expect no recompense for my services. I have been sent to aid you in your quest."

Sam resisted the urge to glace across at Merry. How did this man know of their mission?

Merry had the sense to look confused. "Quest? What do you mean?" But Sam could hear the restrained surprise and panic behind his tone.

"A quest that has brought you all the way from you comfort of your homes in the North. But tell me, where is the rest of your company? Two men, a Dwarf, an Elf, and one more of your kind, if I am not mistaken."

Sam was taken aback by the man's knowledge, and he took a moment to look him over more completely.

The man's cloak was a deep brown, not black as Sam had originally thought, and he carried nothing but a cloth bag and a tall staff. Sam immediately felt suspicion fill him. A man with a strange, compelling voice who carried a staff... Could this be some trick of Sauron or Saruman to persuade them into revealing the Ring?

"Show us your face," he demanded. "We would know who we're speaking to.."

Merry nodded his agreement.

"Certainly," the man said, lifting a hand to his hood.

Sam tried not to flinch at the sudden movement, his already strained senses jumping at every new revelation. He was surprised then by the plain appearance of the man. Yet what had he been expecting? A half man, half orc creature would have been less of a shock to him then than the ordinary man who now stood before them. His thin face and prominently sharp chin and nose, despite reminding Sam of an eagle, struck him as nothing unusual, and his brown eyes were simply that: brown. Sam considered for a moment as he met the expectant gaze of the stranger. Perhaps there was something to be weary of in this new meeting. If he had once told Faramir he resembled a wizard in the way he looked in to you and seemed to see what you were thinking, then this man was even more worthy of the description.

It was a long moment before Sam could tear his eyes away, and after he had done so he felt empty and confused.

"Well then," the man said at last. "Can you bear my appearance, or shall we stand on this bank staring at one another for what remains of the night?"

Merry jerked suddenly, as though woken from a dream. He glanced across at Sam before asking what was upon both their minds. "Why should we trust you?"

The man shrugged and said, "You have little choice, unless you fancy asking a wraith for his healing skills." There was little mirth in the statement, for Merry and Sam felt cold and confused with the thought of entrusting a stranger with Frodo, and the man himself seemed frustrated at the stubborn resistance of the two Hobbits.

He could have overpowered us by now, Sam thought. Perhaps this was an indication that he really meant them no harm.

"Come," the man said, holding out one arm in a gesture of peace and moving forward a step. "We will introduce ourselves and then perhaps you will allow me close enough to friend to tend his wounds. I have knowledge enough to guess two of your names... Frodo, Samwise.. and Peregrin perhaps..?"

Sam felt Merry stiffen beside him.

"I have come from a mutual friend. Gandalf the Grey has sent me to you. He would have come himself were it not for some pressing matters in the north."

"Gandalf!" Sam exclaimed before he could stop himself, his heart pounding with the mention of a name that inspired such images of steady direction.

"Yes, Gandalf, Mithrandir to some. I came in his place to do my duty as his kin. I am Radagast."

"How do we know you're not some spy of Saruman?" Merry asked, throwing a bucket of cold water over Sam's hopes. "The last time we saw him was when Saruman expulsed him from the cave beneath the mountain. Why, you could be Saruman himself, trying to snare us with fine words!"

The man laughed, surprising Sam and Merry. "You are suspicious creatures!" He shook his head in what seemed like despair. "Gandalf has told me many redeeming traits of your race - but this stubbornness, I have never seen the like of it before! I am beginning to wonder what I can say to convince you. That I have neither the power, nor the wish, to change my..." he ran a hand through his damp brown hair, "less than pleasing appearance, should show you that my aspirations do not reach that of Curuinir. But perhaps a message from my cousin would show you that I am indeed in earnest.. " Radagast hesitated slightly, seemingly unsure of who he should address. "He says to the Halfling Frodo to trust himself in this, and not to be swayed from his purpose. He also passes a warning to the youngest of the Hobbits, Peregrin, is it?" He turned to Merry.

"Merry," the Hobbit replied icily, his eyes flashing with hurt at the mention of his lost friend.

Radagast sighed at the anger he saw in Merry's gaze, and shifted his eyes to Sam for a moment, perhaps wondering which of the Hobbits would be easier to break through, Sam thought.

"Merry, then," he said turning back to the younger Hobbit. "Trust me but for little while, take my staff, hold a knife to my throat if it eases your mind, just give me the chance to prove my purpose in being here."

* * *

The sun had finally appeared behind the trees after a bitter struggle. It seemed to Faramir as though the forests would never see the light again.

Neither he nor Legolas had found much rest through the cold night. The damp ground beneath them had soaked into their clothes and chilled them to the skin. Despite the rain, the smell of blood choked him with its intensity and made his stomach turn with the thought of how much blood he had lost upon his cursed hill. More than this, however, was the uncertainly of what had become of their friends. Legolas' worry, breaking spasmodically through his usually stoic expression, was enough to convince Faramir that was something was seriously wrong.

The easy camaraderie of the night before had crumbled into a tense silence, and when the Elf spoke it was with an abrupt, cold tone that made Faramir feel even more at fault for their delay.

He trailed on the heels of the Elf now, feeling heavy in body and mind. They had not stopped in their search since day break, and still had made precious little in the way of progress.

Pressing a trembling hand over his aching shoulder he clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea. He had discovered it was advisable to relax during the frequent battering to his senses, rather than fight the sensation. No real friend had he to aid him in this ordeal, no soldier or ranger who had sworn by oath to follow him, and he would not have Legolas think him weaker still for delaying their progress more than he had already.

Some part of his mind was sure that Frodo, Sam and Merry, perhaps Gimli also, were safely upon the eastern side of the river, and the other almost choked him with concern for Aragorn and Pippin's plight, and whether his own injury would hinder them in providing the aid Legolas thought the others so urgently needed.

They had traipsed to the shore, and attempted to pick up a trail, but the rain of the day before had swept away the topsoil, and with it any hope of discovering tracks.

Legolas had then suggested that they climb to the summit of Amon Hen, and from there decide their next manoeuvre.

So now they struggled upwards, Faramir ever hindmost, knowing little awaited them at the top of the slope but another painful tramp down the other side.

He took a moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily against a tree before raising his eyes to the slope above. There was no sign of Legolas, and felt his heart quicken at the realisation that the Elf was so focused upon his task he might not even have noticed he had left the man behind. But he felt disorientated and weak, like a man who had spent weeks in a sick bed and was trying to learn to walk again.

He knew he should warn the Elf he was lagging behind once more, though found it somewhat difficult to suppress his nagging pride enough to do so. The previous hostility between them was not forgotten, and though he recognised it as a childish, nonsensical reaction, his pride railed against being pitied by the Elf.

"Legolas," he called at last, and receiving no answer but the soft whispering of branches, pushed himself unsteadily onto his own feet and struggled upwards once more.

His feet slip in the soft mud, and a strange worry seeped into his thoughts.. why had Legolas, with hearing ten times that of his own, failed to answer his call? He called out to the Elf twice more, then, almost stumbling, broke out of the trees and topped the rise.

Standing grey and proud against the dawn, the tower of Amon Hen loomed over the clearing.

His eyes darted quickly around the space as he struggled to catch his breath. It was not until he peered into the shadow of the stone monument that he caught sight of the Elf. He was kneeling, head bent over to gaze at something which he held clasped in his hands.

Faramir approached slowly, feeling the strange dread grow within him at the rigid posture and clenched jaw of the Elf. Legolas did not look up at his approach, and peering over the archer's shoulder Faramir could not restrain a gasp of surprise as he saw Andúril, a dull sheen of abandoned metal against the bloodied grass.

* * *

"He is wounded badly, Aragorn; he fades even as we speak." Gimli met the eyes of his friend with heavy doubt, "Is there nothing we can do?"

Aragorn pressed a bloodied hand over the pale cheek of the Hobbit and sighed, saying, "I do not know, Gimli. Truly I cannot think what has befallen him."

"The Orcs, they forced him to drink that foul brew... perhaps..."

"Nay," Aragorn shook his head, wincing at the recollection of the Orc draft. "Hobbits are more like to men than Elves. No concoction could cause such in an able body."

Gimli heard pain in the other's voice, and studied his features closely. "You also seem pale."

Aragorn's mouth twisted into a thin lipped smile, and Gimli noted the blood clinging there, a painful reminder of stifled cries as the Orcs had questioned him. Gimli felt guilt rise within him at the fresh reminder and could only be thankful the young Hobbit had not been forced to endure the torture of being able to do nothing as a friend was in pain.

"Aragorn," he said after a moment, not wishing to put the other through more than he had already endured, but knowing that if he could just force a recollection they might be able to discover what had caused Pippin's sudden ailment. "What happened upon Amon Hen?"

Dark eyes stared back at him, and the Dwarf was almost frightened by the intensity he saw there. He was holding his breath, and knew that if anything he was frightened that one of their number had fallen upon that hill and that he had been able to do nothing to prevent it. He knew he had managed to protect Frodo, Merry and Sam, if but for a short while, but it was that blasted Elf who plagued his thoughts. In his mind horrible images played and replayed, tormenting him with the possibility that those events might have come to pass.

"You recall the night upon the Anduin, when one of the Nine flew across the river." Aragorn's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Aye," he nodded, "it was felled by the Elf's arrow and landed in the trees on the western bank."

Pain filled eyes locked upon his.

Gimli's breath caught in his throat. "You don't mean...?" The enormity of the suggestion rendered him speechless for a few moments, and the fears that had been taunting his mind intensified a hundred fold.

"There was an arrow," Aragorn said, "a bloodied arrow. I have considered that it was most likely a blind, to false trick to turn my mind, yet somehow..."

Gimli could see it in the other's face, Aragorn had felt it too! Some strange dread over what they had left in the darkness of that cursed hillside... alone, bleeding... He shuddered, the gloomy atmosphere of this place was getting to him. More likely than anything, Legolas and Faramir were tracking them even now, or perhaps regrouping with the Hobbits.

Gimli looked up, realising he would never be satisfied until he grasped each of his friends by the arm once more and knew they were well. A strange gleam had come to Aragorn's eyes, and Gimli saw the seed of an idea forming in the other's mind.

"What is it?" he asked after many moment of daring not to hope. He reached out with his bound hands and grasped the other's wrist. "Tell me."

"The black breath," the ranger said it so quietly Gimli barely heard. "I am a fool not to have seen it sooner! Help me Gimli, here..."

Aragorn shifted his body to the side, wincing as the torn skin of his back protested against the moment. "Lift up my cloak, quickly! Now see... in that small pocket."

Gimli found the task difficult with the harsh Orc rope biting into his flesh, but somehow he managed to slide the small pouch from Aragorn's cloak.

Aragorn tore at the package, and Gimli recognised his haste. They had rested long, and from the noises of the Orcs they did not have much time before they would be moving once more. Could Pippin live through another day of endless marching?

The leaves Aragorn crushed between his fingers seemed as normal weeds to Gimli, though he remembered their sweet smell that had been so much aid in healing them after they had escaped the mines of Moria. The same curative aroma reached him now as the Ranger breathed upon the leaves, he even fancied that some colour rose to the Hobbit's cheeks.


	26. Horses and smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 39 - Horses and smoke**

Days had passed with nothing but the light tread of Legolas and his own heavy footsteps for comfort. Disregarding all weariness, all sense of pain, they had run on, chasing ever the shadow of an enemy who had vanished and left naught but heavily trampled grass as a trail.

A brief respite upon a windswept outcrop of rock left Faramir standing winded and pained behind the steady Elf. They had barely spoken, and the heavy silence was beginning to press down upon him.

In an effort to change the pressures upon his sore body he dropped to a crouch, narrowing his eyes to look outward, over the plains. He shrugged his bow from his shoulder and let it rest upon the rock beneath his feet, allowing the wind to sweep his damp hair away from his face.

Above him he heard the Elf sigh, and Legolas' tone, when he spoke, was more bitter than he had yet heard it to be. "There is no hope to lessen their lead; they are over three days ahead."

The Elf gripped the hilt of Andril with white fingers. "It is as if they have run with the whips of their dark masters at their backs. orcs should take some respite under the light of day, if only to eat, yet these creatures have not done so! They will reach Isenguard while we yet traverse the plains, and once within the stronghold of Saruman there will be no escape."

"There may be some hope in the strength of Rohan," Faramir suggested, rising with difficulty. "The Rohirrim do not suffer Orcs to invade their borders, and perchance our quarry may be delayed, or even destroyed by the men of Rohan."

Legolas sighed, turning to Faramir with almost a defeated glance. "It is a small hope."

"It is all we have."

* * *

Pippin awoke to shouts and a foggy head. His first idea was that he and Merry had spent the night in the Green Dragon, and had drank too much ale, and smoked far too much Longbottom Leaf. The pain in his head and the parched nature of his throat  
certainly seemed to confirm this supposition, though a stinging pain in his back seemed alien and forced him to wriggle and open his sore eyes.

The expected hazy fog of pipe weed seemed to cloud his vision, but the scene that followed surpassed even the most frightening of dreams. First there was a face above his own, rotting and distorted, its features twisted horribly in something between intense fury and the agony of death. A stench suddenly assailed all his senses, the putrid, acrid smell of death and smoke combined. The smoke was not the sweet pungent odour of Old Toby; it was a dense black cloud. Pippin had never before smelt the stench of burning flesh, but now it smothered him, causing his eyes to sting and his throat to ache.

He felt a sudden all-mastering desire to flee, to escape this nightmarish reality - for, he realised, this was really happening. Somehow the Orcs that had held them captive had been themselves attacked. Pippin realised suddenly that he might be seen as  
an Orc, or overlooked altogether, which would perhaps be worse still. He could see it now in his mind; one Hobbit standing alone in a field of rotting orc corpses and burning bodies.

He scrambled for a hold on the earth beneath him, but his hands were tied and he had difficulty rolling onto his stomach to crawl. He managed it at last and mustered all the strength he had to shove the heavy orc body from atop his own. The heat  
from flames struck his face, and a horse thundered past with a roar of hooves and flying dust.

He realised it would be wise to remain where his was, lest he be trodden into the earth by a stampeding horse.

He would wait until the Orcs were dead, and the riders were less preoccupied before making his move. He rolled onto his back and let his head rest against the earth while he waited. He only hoped none of the Orcs would recognise him before he had a chance to appeal to the riders. He closed his eyes as he tried to think of what he would say to the riders...

* * *

"Captain!"

Pippin groaned at the loud noise so close to him, wondering why someone was shouting.

"Captain. My lord, this is no orc."

"Let me see..."

Pippin opened his eyes slightly as a large hand grasped him behind the shoulder and raised him to a sitting position. He felt as though he would be instantly sick, and indeed the bitter taste of bile rose to the back of his throat, but he swallowed  
just in time.

"If it is not an orc..." The sentence was left unfinished as the strong hand searched for signs of life.

Determined to prove himself alive, Pippin managed to say through sore lips and a dry throat, "I'm not an Orc..." He opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the faces of two men. One was wearing a shiny helmet that came down into a horse head-shaped guard to protect his nose.

The other held his helmet under his arm and in Pippin's eyes seemed to be blurry with a layer of gold blowing across his face. Pippin felt a great relief swell within him.

"I'm a Hobbit, not an Orc," he said again to make sure they understood him. "Just smell my breath if you don't believe me!"

The two men looked at each other in surprise, then the one without the helmet laughed. The sound allowed Pippin to relax his taught muscles and lean back against the hand holding his head, until he remembered...

"Aragorn!" Starting back into motion he looked pleadingly up at the golden haired men. "Please, you must find my friends!"

The man holding his head looked at him intensely. "You had companions?"

"Were they... Are they of your kind?" the other man asked hesitatingly.

Pippin saw the worry in their eyes and struggled to conjure a description of Aragorn and Gimli to his mind. "One is a man, like you, only his hair is dark. The other is a Dwarf. He has a red beard." He blurted out all the facts he could think of, realising as he did so that if Aragorn and Gimli were dead it would be his fault. But he knew the first thing to do was to try to find Aragorn.

One of the men shouted orders to the others, and Pippin felt himself lifted in two pairs of strong arms.

"I am Éomer. What is your name?" the man with the golden hair asked him.

"Peregrin Took," he answered, and then added, "but most people just call me Pippin."

"A strange folk indeed," he heard the other man saying as they lowered him to a stretcher next to the wounded of their own company. Pippin felt small among so many tall warriors, though the comfort of rest dimmed this feeling to the merest discomfort.

* * *

When he next awoke and turned to the side he was overjoyed to find a stretcher bearing Gimli laid out beside him. The Dwarf seemed very pale, and the bloody gash across his forehead did nothing to change the impression, but nevertheless Pippin was overwhelmingly relieved to find him alive.

He looked around for Aragorn, but could see very little from his low vantage point.

Orders were being shouted across the camp, and Pippin saw that some time must have passed between his last waking moments. The bodies of the orcs had been piled into a great mound, and were now smoking. The wind blew away from the makeshift camp. For that he was glad, as he thought a reminder of the smell of death might cause him to be ill.

He let the sounds wash around him, too exhausted by his recent experiences to rise.  
Through bleary eyes he saw a tall man picking his way across the field towards the injured. He recognised the fair hair and bright eyes of Éomer and saw his hope brighten in them.

He swallowed uncomfortably as Éomer came up beside his stretcher, feeling notably smaller in the presence of the great rider.

Éomer knelt heavily down beside Pippin, asking kindly, "How are you feeling now, master Hobbit?"

Pippin felt his eyes widen. "How did you..?"

Éomer glanced behind him. "Let your mind rest easy. Your other friend has returned from the smoke and fire of battle with the orcs. We had thought him dead as we found no body - but from the fray he returned like some spirit, bloodied but still standing!"

Pippin barely registered the words, or the admiration in the man's gaze. His eyes were fixed upon the familiar face with tired but smiling lines about the eyes that appeared above Éomer's broad shoulder, and he gasped with surprise and joy.

"Aragorn!" You're alive!"

Aragorn took his place by Éomer's side and grasped Pippin's hand in his. Pippin heard Éomer's deep hearty laugh at the Hobbit's delight and the sound warmed his blood. Aragorn's hand squeezed his own in a gesture of true affection, and though, Pippin saw, he was bruised and bleeding upon his arm and the side of his head, his grip was strong and his face smiling with relief.

* * *

"Where are we to go now, Aragorn?" Pippin asked, turning to look behind him as Aragorn settled the saddle so they could ride more comfortably.

"To Edoras," Aragorn answered. "There the king of Rohan sits in the hall of Meduseld. He is Éomer's uncle."

"Have you met the king?" the Hobbit asked with a dreamy look on his almost blackened face. "In the Shire we don't have a king; I think I would be frightened to meet such a man."

Aragorn shook his head and smiled inwardly at Pippin's complete ignorance. What had the Hobbit been thinking of all these months not to gather clues enough to see Aragorn's true reason for this quest? He could almost see Gandalf muttering 'fool of a took!' as he shook his wise head, baffled still by the behaviour of hobbits.

Gandalf... What had happened to his dear friend? He sighed. He had thought perhaps that they might have discovered the answer to this long asked question had they been taken to Isenguard, though then they too might have met the same fate.

"I did meet Theoden..." he replied, seeing that Pippin was awaiting an answer, "though it was long ago, when his father was on the throne."

Aragorn saw Pippin's eyebrows rise. "How old exactly are you?"

Aragorn hid a smile, "Older than..." he thought for a moment, "...Faramir."

He noted the puzzled look on Pippin's face and wondered what was going through the young Hobbit's mind.

"And how old is Faramir?"

Aragorn thought for a moment, recalling what he knew of Hobbits, and the age of Faramir when he himself had served Ecthelion in Gondor. He scratched his chin. "Exactly that of Samwise."

Pippin laughed, thinking of the difference in height. "And Legolas?"

Aragorn almost choked, hoping he did not have to calculate the answer to this question. "Older than your uncle Bilbo, at the very least."

"Older than Bilbo?" Pippin sighed. "I couldn't imagine having that long a history. You would become tired of things, and of people. Imagine putting up with in-laws for that long! Bilbo gave up and ran off after eleventy-one years with his relatives knocking on the door of Bag End."

Despite the absurdity of the answer, Aragorn could see a profound truth within the words. Elves did tire of the world and feel an unutterable pull to escape Middle Earth. But Legolas... As of yet he had seen no sign of sea-longing in the heart of his dear friend. He was truly lucky that none of the elves closest to him had felt that desire to leave. Though he sometimes feared that Arwen was simply hiding it from him in her desire not to hurt him. He sighed and wondered how the simple words of a Hobbit could affect him so. He was tired, having not rested since the Orcs' cruel treatment of the night before. He needed healing for the wounds upon his torso, hidden from Pippin beneath his clothes. Gimli, when he woke, would fuss over him if he knew the Dwarf. For the moment, though, he could rest easy in the Hobbit's company as they rode to Rohan with Eomer's men, safe in the fact that Pippin had been still recovering from the touch of the Nazgul and had not seen his pain.

* * *

Frodo stared down at the jagged drop below, the noon-day sun lighting the crevices and peaks so that even a simple drop seemed deadly. He felt frustration rise within him. "We must get down today, somehow..."

"Well I can't see how," Sam said with a shrug. "Surely, we'll break our necks if we try climbing down that gully."

Frodo had to agree, though he was too frustrated and angry to admit it. His back ached from his fight with Gollum, and the face of that pale creature haunted him. He was afraid of his own reflection, fearing that day by day he would become closer to that skeletal form destroyed first by the ring and then by the hand of one following in his footsteps.

Frodo feared for his own future; he feared that his abrupt outbursts of anger were due to something darker and more sinister than frustration. But it was out of his control to stop them.

"Perhaps you should rest."

The kind voice of the wizard behind him, instead of calming him as intended, caused his temper to boil over, "What do you care?" He spun around to face them, feeling unnatural anger churn within him yet being unable to prevent it. "You pretend to care, just to gain our trust! Do not think you can take Gandalf's place!"

The red haze faded slowly, and he found himself confronted by the sad, confused gazes of Sam and Merry and the sympathetic expression of Radagast.

All of a sudden an immense weariness took hold of him. He felt ashamed. He had no right to cast such accusations upon one who had come to help them, one who had already shown his worth in healing Frodo's own wounds.

He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the desolate landscape and the wounded faces of his companions. "Forgive me," he whispered, feeling himself sway on his feet as tiredness washed over his senses.

A firm hand took his shoulder, steadying him, and another, smaller and familiar held his arm. "Please Frodo, listen to me."

He opened his eyes and reluctantly met Radagast's brown eyes.

"I do not ask you to replace Gandalf in your heart, nor do I ask even to protect you as he would have done. I have no such power." The sincerity in the soft gaze was impossible to miss, and Frodo sighed, wishing he had recognised it before his outburst. "I only ask that you tolerate my presence and trust me to do all I can to help you."

Sam gently squeezed his arm. "There, Mr Frodo. You can't say it more fairly than that."

In Sam and Merry's eyes Frodo could see a desire for protection, for guidance. And if this man, wizard, was indeed Gandalf's cousin, sent here to aid them in their journey, then surely he would be a fool to refuse it.

"Ah," Radagast said, not waiting for a reply, "it seems I have forgotten my rope. I never was much of a traveller..."

Frodo could not help the glimmer of a smile as Sam's jaw dropped open. A series of muted curses followed as the Hobbit ferreted around in his pack until he pulled out the silver elven rope he had acquired in Lorien.

"I had clean forgotten about it." He sighed. "Made by the Lady herself too, I reckon." He held the silken stuff proudly out to Radagast, as though he was a child seeking admiration.

Radagast took the offering, running the rope between his long fingers with appreciation. "A vine planted to grow upon this would grow well indeed."

Frodo smiled as he saw the heat of passion rise to Sam's face. "Ah, but you see it would have to be a beautiful vine, for it'd be wrong for something from the Golden Wood not to remain beautiful and loved."

"You have the mind of a poet, Samwise." Radagast passed the rope back into Sam's awaiting hands. "But have you also the mind of a sailor? How are you at tying knots?"

Sam grinned. "Not only sailors are good at knots; gardeners must also be good with their hands." With renewed energy Sam looped the end of the rope around a sturdy boulder at the lowest point of the cliff top.

The friendly chatter seemed the warm the atmosphere, and Frodo found himself sharing a knowing smile with Merry.

They started over to where Sam was arguing with Radagast. "Another poetic gardener?" Merry mused, shaking his head. "What ever shall we do?"

* * *

Pippin woke to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He blinked as the ground seemed to sway and move beneath him. His body felt sore and strained. They were still riding and somehow he had managed to fall asleep while still on the horse. He wiggled uncomfortably, wondering how many hours they had been riding.

The gentle shake persisted and Pippin turned his head to meet Aragorn's gaze. The ranger was not looking at him, but ahead and upwards. Night was falling fast, and he had to squint into the blushing sun to make out the object of Aragorn's interest.

A tall mountain rose before them, shadowing the land that lay before it, and backed by other such peaks, tipped with glimmering snow. On the very top of the rise there was a castle, or so it seemed, glinting gold as the dying sun. A flag of a white horse on an emerald banner seemed to beckon to them as they approached the foot of the slope.

The city was surrounded by a large fence of wood and a wall and lower dike formed from the stream that issued down from the snows.

Muted conversations from their fellow riders reached his ears, and it seemed as though the horses gained speed with the love their riders felt for their homeland.

Pippin felt a sudden rush of loneliness, and the harsh wind seemed to seep right through to his bones. He longed for the comfort of his own fireside on a winter evening, of the sunlight that streamed through his window in the morning, and, most of all, he missed Merry.

Behind him Aragorn seemed to sense his dismal thoughts, and the arm holding his tightened in a gesture of comfort.

Pippin looked once again to the great golden hall above them as they were let into the city. The guardsmen at the gate stared curiously at him as they passed, yet Pippin was too tired to care. He leaned back into Aragorn's chest and let the colours of gold and red blur his vision.

He blinked as he saw a white speck of colour pierce the sky before the Golden hall, though when he looked more closely it was gone.


	27. Isengard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 40 - Isengard**

The dull clatter of horse-hooves brought many of the citizens of Edoras from their houses. Meeting suspicious and even hostile stares with his own gaze, Gimli tightened his grip on Eomer's tunic. Being unseated from the temperamental beast on which he was precariously balanced would not only be embarrassing but also painful.

Eomer turned his head, unconsciously flicking the long golden strands of horse hair that adorned his helmet into Gimli's eyes. "You must not blame our people for their suspicion," the horseman told the Dwarf. "It is long since strangers have been welcome in Edoras."

"And why would not strangers wish to visit this..." Gimli stopped himself lest he express his true observations, "this charming, windswept hill."

Eomer raised his eyebrows. "I have heard Dwarves are for the underground. Edoras may not be to your liking, yet it is our home, for we have known no other. At Helm's Deep, the stronghold of our people, there are many great caverns and chambers built into the rock. They are vast and fair, and I would that times were peaceful so that I might show you."

"I would deem it an honour." Gimli had already begun to visualise the greatness of the caves, the shining pools beneath the earth and great pinnacles of sparkling stone. "You seek times of peace? You are at war, then, with Saruman?"

"The men who ride with me have the foresight to see Saruman's deception. Was it not clear to you, who travelled with the Orcs for many miles, that their destination was Isengard and not the Black Land?"

Gimli considered that. "There were many of their number who bore the sign of the white hand."

Eomer's eyes flashed dangerously, and Gimli felt the man's body tense with anger. "There are those close to the King's ear who speak craven councils. We are not at open war with the Black Land, yet war is coming.

Saruman has offered the Rohirrim protection, an alliance of sorts. He proffers us his army to fight alongside orcs and goblin creatures of his own creation."

Gimli felt fear swell within him. The touch of Saruman's power reaching out to cover all the lands was a darkness more subtle and perhaps even more deadly than that of Mordor. "Surely your king must question..."

"The King's ear is drawn by advice other than mine." Eomer's voice was a harsh whisper. "Though I may be closest in kin since the passing of his son, he will not hear a word against the white wizard. I would say one spell-weaver and Orc-driver is much like the next, whatever the colour of his robes."

"Have you no other help on which to rely? Surely other men would come to your aid should you call." Gimli was thinking chiefly of Gondor and attempting to discover all he could while they had the opportunity. He glanced across to Aragorn, seeking his friend's eye.

Aragorn was listening carefully, though his eyes were not upon them. The harsh wind tugged stubbornly at the man's dark hair as he rode, and he held the sleeping Hobbit to his chest, yet the concentration upon his face was unmistakable.

"There was once an alliance with Gondor, though, since Faramir passed in July of last year, we have had no news from Denethor."

"Faramir, you say." Gimli's mind returned to his lost companions and a deep exhaustion seemed to take hold of him.

Eomer's eyes alighted on the Dwarf with eager interest. "You have met with the son of Denethor?"

"He and an Elf travelled with us down the Great River. We lost them at Parth Gallen, above the falls." The distress of their capture by the Orcs and Pippin's brush with the black death had driven the despair and worry for his companions from his mind, but now it returned in full flood.

"Lost," Eomer murmured, seeing the Dwarf's misery. "Were they slain by the Orcs?"

"Nay, not slain," Gimli replied, aware that Aragorn's gaze was upon him.

"We were separated."

Eomer did not broach the subject again, and Gimli was glad of it.

Aragorn drew his horse closer to Eomer's. "Could you not send messages to Gondor? Surely Denethor would honour the old alliance."

Eomer did not quite meet the other's eyes, and Gimli realised that in his respect he was aware of Aragorn's real identity. "We have heard rumours."

Gimli was not one to trust the whispers and secrets of the night, yet it seemed these people were highly superstitious and weary of strangers.

He had seen the surprise and trepidation in the young lord's face as he had mentioned Legolas, and that was enough to convince him that any rumours, however misguided, would be taken to heart. "Of what rumours do you speak?"

Again Eomer's eyes shifted uneasily to Aragorn, though the rest of his face and posture remained calm. "They say Denethor is considering parley with Mordor. For the safety of his people they say he would ally with Sauron."

There was a long pause. The wind tugged angrily at their cloaks and hair, yet did not touch the awkward stillness of the moment.

Then Gimli laughed. The ludicrous nature of the proposal caused him to shake his head in disbelief. "Who would suggest such a ridiculous idea?"

Eomer did not answer, and Gimli saw with growing dread that Aragorn's face had remained grave.

They had come to the summit of the slope, and Meduseld lay before them, its golden facets and carved columns stretched skyward, gold and crimson in the dying light of the evening.

As Eomer slid easily from the saddle, Gimli found his foot stretching to reach the stirrup, and he struggled to lower himself, with dignity, from Eomer's mighty steed. It was a challenge, yet Gimli had stared a Balrog in the eye, and he would not turn back from this simple beast of burden. His eyes widened as he realised his boot had become caught in the finely crafted stirrup of Eomer's beloved friend, and he found himself hopping as the creature shifted and shuffled in an attempt to be free of the bushy bundle of Dwarf hanging at his side.

Heat rose to Gimli's cheeks, and it was as much as he could manage to mumble his gruff appreciation as Eomer attempted to extricate his foot.

The man at the door of the great hall, whose beard and hair were as bright a hue as Gimli's own had been watching the whole escapade and now was trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Hama," Eomer said, greeting the man.

"My lord Eomer," the man replied with a nod, and his face became grave and solemn. "Late is the hour you return to your people. You were absent without the King's leave; surely you must have known you would be missed."

"Absent without leave?" Gimli muttered, feeling their situation worsen by the minute. "Now he tells us."

Eomer seemed to have risen in stature in the last few moments. "There were Orcs to the north. Our scouts saw them crossing the plains yesterday." Eomer's eyes darkened with bitterness. "Surely Grima would have reported this to the King?"

"I fear for you, my lord." Hama shook his head, and Gimli saw conflict swell within his gaze. "You trust to ties of blood, yet other council sets the King's mind against you." The voice had lowered to a whisper, and Gimli could barely make out the words. "It is not my place to question the King's decisions, yet this time I fear you shall not escape without severe consequences."

"Where is the King now?"

"The King is in council with Grima." Hama's face was almost as dark as Eomer's own, and Gimli wondered at the fact that this man could inspire such hate and yet still live. "The lady Eowyn is waiting, my lord. She wishes to speak with you when you are at liberty."

Eomer turned, gesturing to one of his men. "Eothain, tell the men to stable the horses and return to their families tonight."

"My lord." The young man dipped his head and was about to return to the men.

"Eothain, also tell the men to be ready to ride at dawn."

Gimli met eyes with Aragorn, and they shared a puzzled glance. The welcome of such a high lord was decidedly unfriendly, and Gimli recalled the angry stares of the people of Edoras as they ascended the slope to the hall.

"Come, my friends," Eomer said, shrugging off his cloak and tiredly rubbing his eyes with a dirty hand. "My sister will show you to the guest rooms, and in the morning we will see the King. He is evidently otherwise engaged."

Gimli and Aragorn, who yet carried the sleeping Pippin, followed Eomer to the side of the Hall, where there was a door into a kind of antechamber. It looked like a stable to Gimli, but then again, he thought all the buildings in Edoras resembled stables, or sported some horse motif.

Eomer opened the heavy door quietly, and ushered the man and Dwarf through it before sliding the heavy bolt across after them.

Following the horse lord down the narrow corridors Gimli felt a great desire to sleep once more upon a soft surface. For many days they had been forced to lie upon solid earth with hands and feet bound. His wrists still bore the recent scars of orcish rope, and his back the marks of the whip. Yet still, he thought, while the morrow might bring shadows of corrupt councillors and wizards manipulating men as though they were merely pieces on a game board, he would sleep comfortably until the dawn.

* * *

The room was darkly lit when they entered and the shimmering light of the moon played upon the bed and furniture like white fire. At first Gimli only had eyes for the comfort of the bed, draped with warm furs and calling to him with a lulling song.

Peering past Eomer's broad body, he saw then that a lady stood facing the open window, the moonlight shining brightly upon her figure. She seemed to glow white in the darkened room, like the spirit of the place, tall with golden hair that seemed softly ablaze. His mind rushed instantly to the figure of the Lady of the Golden Wood, and how she had ever illuminated the darkest of his dreams during their captivity with the Orcs.

He was speechless, and Aragorn too seemed to be transfixed by the sight. Eomer, however, moved into the room and spoke. "Sister."

She turned in a sweep of white and gold, and despite the dark hollows beneath tired eyes the lady's face seemed to come alight with joy at the sight of her brother. "Eomer! You have returned."

He laughed and seemed more at ease than Gimli had yet witnessed as he fondly embraced his sister. The Dwarf felt touched by the sight, although he knew it was unseemly for a Dwarf to be moved by such tender emotions.

Eomer turned to face his guests, "Here, Eowyn, is Gimli the Dwarf, Pippin the Halfling and Aragorn, the heir of Elendil, whom I have had the honour of rescuing from the Orcs."

"We owe your brother a great debt, Lady Eowyn," Aragorn said as he bent his head in respect, and Gimli followed suit, seeing her eyes widen as he did so.

She looked to Eomer and back to Aragorn, surprised.

"I was fortunate indeed in my discovery, sister, was I not?" Eomer smiled. "To find a lost king upon our fields. Surely it is a sign that the tighter Saruman closes his fist upon us, the more we slip through his fingers."

The note of determination in Eomer's words caused Gimli to feel caught up in the young man's energy, when the lady caught his arm with an almost violent grip.

"You are wrong, brother. Only today Grima sent messengers to Isengard accepting Saruman's aid."

Gimli heard Aragorn suck in his breath beside him, and he himself felt his heart clench in surprise.

"We have heard from Gondor, a spy from the council of Minas Tirith rode in secret through the night. It seems the Steward has indeed began negotiations with the Dark Lord. The King, seeing there is now no defence between Rohan and Mordor, has asked for all Saruman's forces to help us combat that of the dark land."

Aragorn stepped quickly past Gimli, causing Pippin to start and wake in his arms. "Saruman comes to Edoras?"

Eowyn looked helplessly at Aragorn, and Gimli seemed to see her hope in Aragorn's strength alight even as she gazed at him. "I did my best to persuade the King, yet he would not listen. In his mind he is convinced that Gondor has betrayed us and that without the aid of Saruman we will fall. The messengers will reach Isengard by the tomorrow at the earliest..."

"Saruman will muster his force swiftly," Eomer interrupted, meeting their eyes with a dark finality that caused even Pippin to fall into a shocked silence as Aragorn set him upon his feet. "We have but a few days..." The tall man's shoulders seemed to slump in defeat, and shaking his head, he murmured, "They will come, and the wizard's twisted creations will destroy us all."

"There is naught you can accomplish tonight, Eomer." Aragorn shook his head, and Gimli recognised the dark lines of exhaustion in the man's features as they were also upon his own. "Had you the support of the King, and the time to muster your people you could ride out and meet Saruman's force upon the plains. As it is..."

"As it is," Eomer spat angrily, "we must sit here like children on sandcastles while the tide is flowing, until we welcome Saruman through our gates and Edoras is burned to the ground."

"Brother." Eowyn laid a calming hand on Eomer's arm. Gimli noted the pallor of her skin, yet he saw that the despair that had been written plainly in her bearing at their first meeting had gone, and in its place seemed to have grown a determined resolution. "You must ride at first light, taking all the men who will follow you. Escape from this place before Saruman's army comes."

Eomer shook his head. "I will not leave you here. And the King..."

"I will stay with him."

Eowyn glanced in Gimli and Aragorn's direction and a hidden message seemed to pass between brother and sister. Eomer finally sighed, breathing out angrily through his nose in a way that seemed to Gimli's exhausted and befuddled mind to be very much like that of a disgruntled horse.

Eowyn bowed slightly in Aragorn's direction, formality hiding her obvious annoyance. "If it please my lord, I will show you to your room."

"Goodnight, Gimli," Pippin said. The Hobbit touched the Dwarf's hand in a way that made Gimli smile inside before Pippin followed Aragorn out of the room.

"As you see," Eomer remarked as he opened the door leading into the passage, "my sister can match any horse in her stubbornness."

It was a silent world that surrounded them. Cloaked in a dense haze of wispy cloud, the four figures finally reached the edge of the great expanse that lay before them.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell that invaded his nostrils, breathing in the thick, foul scent. He prodded the damp pool before him with a cautious toe. "It's some kind of bog!"

"At least there are no midges to be seen so far," Merry said, bending down to peer into the murky depths. "The Midgewater marshes were enough for me."

Frodo came up beside them, staring out into the swamp with what appeared to Sam to be a haunted look. "Perhaps it is the mist," he said after a moment. "I haven't seen a living creature since we entered the fog."

Indeed, Sam reflected, there had been no sign of life for many long miles, since they had left the craggy heights of Emyn Muil. He turned back to see Radagast standing thoughtfully behind them, peering with narrowed eyes into the growing mists.

"What is this place?" Frodo asked, turning away from the pools with a shiver.

"Some still name it the Battle Plain," Radagast replied. "The graves of those who perished in the Battle of Dagorland lay here before the marshes spread and covered all the land between here and Mordor."

"Is there no other way?" Merry asked, holding the back of his sleeve across his nose against the smell.

Frodo slumped down on a rock, pulling his pack upon his lap, and said, "At least no Orcs will follow us. Should we eat here before going on?"

Sam followed the others as they settled themselves down on the damp ground, and began pulling a packet of lembas from his bag. Before he could maneuver the elvish bread from its leaf wrapping Radagast tossed him a small chunk of dark coloured stuff. Sam fumbled, almost dropping the precious food, but managed to keep his grip. He sniffed gingerly at it, not recognising the smell. He looked up and asked, "What is it?

Radagast raised his eyebrows. "Dried meat. Courtesy of Saruman the White."

Sam saw Frodo frown, and Merry almost choked on the large mouthful he was in the process of swallowing.

Radagast shrugged at their bewildered glances. "Saruman will not miss it, and surely we have a more pressing need for supplies than he. Gandalf said he thought your supplies might have been running low."

The Hobbits looked at each other, and Sam felt the dread he had been suppressing during the toils of Emyn Muil rise up within him. He had thought with certainty for so long of Gandalf's demise, that to believe in such a hope now would surely be devastating if proved false.

"You have told us nothing," Merry said warily, looking at Radagast with hopeful yet uncertain eyes.

"You have not asked."

Merry rolled his eyes in exasperation, clenching his hands in the dead grass that lay beneath their feet. "You must tell us what happened, I mean, how did you fight Saruman?"

"There was no fight," Radagast said simply. "I waited with the Ents until..."

"Ents?" Merry asked. "What are they?"

"Tree shepherds."

The hobbits looked at each other, yet Radagast seemed not to notice, or not to care, and went on. "Saruman's army passed out through the gates; we watched it pass. Saruman was at its head." The wizard seemed more somber now, and in his eyes lay something that made Sam shiver, though he had not witnessed the sight himself.

"We moved in, and, as it was dark, the deception was not difficult. The Orcs Saruman had left to guard his doors were weak of mind, and in the tunnels below Orthanc, amid all Sarauman's foul works of smoke and metal, they did not suspect that I was not their master returned."

Frodo's eyes widened and Merry's small gasp filled the silence that followed. Frodo, his eyes still staring, began, "You pretended to be Saruman?"

"They let themselves believe that I was. There was little need to give orders. One of the Orcs suggested I had returned for the prisoner's body, and I only had to follow."

"Body?" Frodo repeated, and the same dread Sam heard in Frodo's words was echoed in his own heart.

Radagast nodded. "I feared at these words that Saruman had found his prisoner to be no more use and had disposed of his rival before departing with the army. But when the Orc led me down in the depths of the tower, and opened the door of a small chamber I found my cousin still breathing, though when I called his name he did not answer."

Sam saw that Radagast seemed to wince at this part of the tale and noted in the wizard's ancient face the guilt that had eaten away at him since his discovery. "You could not have come sooner," Sam declared in an attempt to be comforting, though he felt rather absurd in trying to ease a mind that was so much more complex and wise in comparison to his own.

Merry nodded. "If you had come sooner, you too would have been trapped by Saruman."

Radagast pressed his lips together in a thin smile, though Sam saw that it would take more than the assurances of hobbits to ease such guilt.

"I discarded my own disguise, for I knew that by now the Ents would have surrounded Isengard and moved in against the Orcs. I took the white cloth and carried the body within it until I had reached the summit of the stairs. From there, I could exit to the tunnel workings, through the door the Orc had unlocked. The great diggings were empty, and I could hear the battle with the ents above.

"The wooden platform to the land above was ablaze, no doubt the fault of the orcs in their attempt to destroy the Ents. I could see there was no other way to escape from the diggings. Lying the body of Gandalf upon the wooden floor, I used the pulley and rope to move the lift, yet the metal of the turn wheel was burning, and it was an arduous task."

Radagast held his palms flat out to the hobbits, and Sam saw the angry, red burns upon his skin.

"The fire was spreading, and I saw also flames were catching at the corners of my own clothes and the white cloth I had used to cover Gandalf," he continued. "The edge of the great pit rose up, and the battle came into sight. The ring of Orthanc was burning. Some of the Ents had been lit by the torches the Orcs wielded. For the most part, the Orcs were losing the battle, and, just as I dragged Gandalf's body away from the pit, the Ents broke the supports of the great dam, and the water flooded into the dike and flowed over the land towards us."

Radagast shook his head, and Sam was so frightened by the intensity of the tale that he could scarcely believe that it had occurred just three days before.

"We would have been washed back into the great pit then had not one of the Ents lifted us and dug his roots into the soil."

Even Merry was so engrossed in the story that he did not comment on the fact that the strange creatures with whom Radagast had travelled had roots for feet.

"The great wave of water struck us, yet the Ent held firm. After it had passed, and all the Orcs had been washed away back into the great hole in the earth, the kind Ent bore us to the steps of Orthanc and there he set us.

"And it seemed we had passed through fire and water, earth and air in the space of a few moments. Something happened, and even now I have not the words or the knowledge to explain it. The sun rose, and the dirty cloth about Gandalf, burnt and drowned in our escape, seemed to glow bright in the new sun, and I shielded my eyes against the blinding radiance.

"A change in the order of things seemed to take place, and time itself seemed to pause. And I opened my eyes, and he was returned to us, no longer grey, but white."

* * *

Dark eddying currents of water moved about him. The sky seemed dark with unshed tears over a broad sweep of shore and waves. He breathed heavily, as though the air was thick with smoke, yet before his eyes it was clear, though grey and sombre. No waves broke the steady flow of water about him. The dark liquid seemed to be a part of him, as though if he were to step further out into the dark stream he would become one with the drifting tides.

He looked down at his hands. They showed the familiar scars, yet this place was foreign to him. Not the place perhaps, for he had little doubt it was the waters of the Anduin washing passed him on their way to the sea, yet he was bemused as to why he was here.

The sinister horizon grew darker still, and from that obscurity of shadows and night came a shape drifting in the waves. And it passed him, tipping gently with the roll of the waves beneath its prow - and there lay a warrior, asleep it seemed, for there was colour in the face where all else was grey and desolate.

The boat of Lorien glided on, away from him, and he seemed to sink back into the waters with a great heave of breath, like a sob yet swallowed by the dark stream. For the warrior lying so peacefully had been Boromir, borne of the tides of the Anduin out to sea.

The sorrow and despair that came upon him was suffocating, and he seemed to drown in it. He was unable - nay, unwilling - to rise from the murky depths, content to sink further into desolation.

It seemed as though someone was grasping him, pulling him back to the surface, calling his name. He would have fought against the feeling, yet he had not the strength. He was dragged higher until light suddenly surrounded him, and he began to cough.

Gentle hands turned him to the side, and held him until the spasms ceased.

When he opened his eyes and sank back upon the grass, staring blearily at the sky. It was grey, and he feared for a moment that he was still trapped within the dream. Then the concerned face of Legolas appeared above him, leaning over to place a comfortably warm hand upon his forehead. He shivered, feeling soaked through, though he knew his clothes to be dry.

"Do you feel cold?" Legolas asked, not waiting for an answer before unclasping his own cloak to wrap around the man's shivering body.

Faramir felt weak and exhausted. He could barely focus upon Legolas' face as the Elf sat back to study him, though he could see clearly enough to recognise lines of worry marring the Elf's features.

"I am well," he managed, letting his eyes slowly close against the glow of the before dawn light.

Legolas made a noise in his throat that caused Faramir to open his eyes again. "I think we both can see that is not so."

Faramir sighed wearily. "A nightmare. There is no cause for concern."

"You were calling out." Legolas frowned at him. "Calling out so violently that I would have thought we were being attacked by all the forces of Mordor."

Leaning his head back on the grass Faramir recalled the dream and was tempted to ask Legolas what he had said while in the clutches of the dream world.

Legolas seemed to consider his next words carefully. "Has something befallen your brother?"

It was more than Faramir could do to remain unmoved. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead and swallowed deeply to calm himself. "I do not know."

"You called for him." Legolas' tone sounded so cautious, so caring that Faramir realised he must have frightened the Elf enough to shake him out the stoic silence that had for days possessed his entire being. "Over and over, you called."

"Just a dream," he said firmly, avoiding the Elf's piercing stare. "A simple dream. Forgive me for causing such a scene..."

"Faramir." Legolas held his arm in a iron grip, though it went lax almost immediately as the Elf stared at the spots of red upon the man's palm. Faramir pulled away, but Legolas was already tugging at the fabric of the man's cloak, searching for the bindings beneath.

He stopped suddenly, and Faramir felt himself grow tense waiting for the reaction.

"It is bleeding again." Legolas shook his head. "Why did you not tell me?"

Faramir struggled up into a sitting position, growing lightheaded. When the feeling subsided, he realised he was leaning on Legolas for support.

The Elf had already began removing the blood-soaked cloth from the wound.

With thoughts of Aragorn and Gimli and how much more they must have endured at the hands of the Orcs, he pulled away from Legolas' grasp and rose to his feet unsteadily.

At that moment the sun peaked above the horizon, shedding golden light across the bare plains. Faramir's eyes alighted on the horizon, widening as he realised what it was he could see.

"Smoke!" A great bonfire was billowing great white clouds of ashes in a northward wind.

Legolas came up beside him fixing his keen eyes on the distant pyre. In little more than a moment he turned back to Faramir, the fiery light reflected eerily in his wide eyes. "The bodies of the Orcs - they are burning."


	28. The dark before dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 41 - The dark before dawn**

Aragorn stepped out into the corridor, feeling the chill of the morning air upon the bare skin of his face and hands. The new day had not yet arrived, and there was time before dawn would come to Rohan, bringing with it, perhaps, the blight of Saruman and his dark creations.

Aragorn gathered his cloak about him and felt vainly for his weapon, realising, as his fingers met air, that his sword lay still upon the summit of Amon Hen. He clenched his jaw at the thought.

Taking the corridor to the left, he followed the passage around, trailing the tips of his fingers upon the carven walls. The torches that had burned brightly the night before had long since burned to nothing, and the way ahead was covered in shadow.

It was then that he first caught the sound of voices. Indistinct it was at first, a ghostly whisper in the dark before dawn. Yet it came again, and this time with more substance, and Aragorn quickened his pace, hoping to find Eomer amidst those preparing to leave Edoras as first light.

The voices seemed to resound ahead of him, and, as Aragorn turned the corner into a much narrower space, he realised he had entered one of the two passages that were secret passageways, which led to the tapestries behind the great hall.

He quietly listened and found that he had walked in upon a private meeting.

"My lady seeks solace from the shadows of the night."

The words reached Aragorn's ears as he stood motionless behind the dark curtain. The sound was clear to him now, resonating from the lofty ceiling and walls. The voice seemed to Aragorn to be at once fawning in tone and bold in the choice of words, and he recognized at once that it was not that of Eomer. There was a rustle of cloth, and Aragorn deemed that the other figure had moved away across the room.

"You need no words," the strangely compelling voice persisted. "I see your grief as clearly as it is written upon your face."

"You see nothing of my mind." This second voice was familiar to him, and Aragorn recognised it as that of the Lady Eowyn. Yet the tenderness he had witnessed as she had welcomed her brother earlier that evening had gone, and in its place was a cold hatred of which he had never before heard the like.

The other man, however, was not deterred by her obvious distain. "Oh, but I do see your thoughts."

Aragorn carefully pulled the curtain back, not liking the tone of the conversation any more than he liked the man's voice. Peering into the gloom he made out the shadowy figure of a man garbed in a black so heavy that only his pale skin shone in the darkness.

"Finally your brother has given the King reason enough to have him locked away. You are grieved by his betrayal, for now you will be utterly alone."

He was near to her now, and Aragorn took his opportunity to slip out from behind the curtain and approach with quiet steps upon the stone floor. He could see the distress growing upon the Lady Eowyn's face as the man slowly forced her against one of the great stone pillars, and he felt his own heart ache for her struggle.

She fumbled at her waist, drawing out a short knife that glinted softly in the grey light from the eastern windows. "Approach me, Snake, and I will cut your throat."

Aragorn's eyes widened slightly at the sudden movement, yet the slight shake in the hand that held the knife and the wild desperation in her eyes warned him that, despite her boldness, she was not in complete control of the situation.

The other man saw it also, and, reaching out his pale hand slowly towards her, he said, "Do not be foolish. You forget that I hold your brother's life in my hands."

The tremors of her hand increased, and Aragorn heard her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her hand lowered, and the knife slipped from her frozen fingers. A hollow thud sounded as it struck the stone floor.

The man reached out, almost hesitatingly, towards her face. "So cold, yet I see your pain. Watching over your king in growing doubt and fear, you curse your womanly form for its weakness, hiding your desire behind this facade of ice."

Aragorn had heard enough. He covered the space between them in three long strides and hurled his weight into the dark figure, throwing the hunched man onto the floor, ignoring the cry of surprise and fear that emanated from him.

Eowyn stepped back in alarm, and quickly Aragorn looked to her, finding her wide, frantic eyes upon him. He grasped her shoulders gently, the pallor of her face making him afraid she would fall. She stood straight and tall, though he could feel her body tremble as he held her, and it seemed to him that her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly with exhaustion and relief.

The man had scrambled to his feet and now stood a safe distance from Aragorn, wiping at a cut upon his forehead. Aragorn felt immediately disturbed by the pale eyes upon him.

"You will regret this," the man hissed, with a shake of his dark head. He side-stepped the couple, never turning his back upon Aragorn, his dark matted hair moving about his face like black serpents.

As he melded into the shadows, Aragorn thought to follow. He abandoned the idea, however, as Eowyn fastened her ice-cold hand upon his wrist. "That was the king's counsellor," she said, and the cold dread had returned to her face. "For many months now his word has been law." She met Aragorn's eyes with a mingled gesture of both hope and despair. "You must leave now, yet I pray that it were not so. There has been little light in our halls of late, yet with your coming there has also come hope."

There was a silence between them, for Aragorn could sense her desperation keenly, yet he knew not how to ease it. The eastern end of the hall had been growing steadily lighter, and great shafts of sunlight, which streamed down through the great windows set high above them, basked the entire hall with golden light. Day had come.

On the heals of the new morning came others, moving out of the shadows at the back of the hall as the two gazed up at the golden dawn. Aragorn sensed their presence immediately, yet knew he could do nothing. They were men of Rohan, and in all things men should be allies. He had to trust to this, for there was little else to which he could cling in the face of an approaching enemy.

He let the men surround him, holding his palms open at his sides in hope that they would recognise that he meant them no harm. The looks they gave him spoke of suspicion, and the darkness beneath their eyes held much doubt and fear.

One of the men approached, his wary eyes fixed upon Aragorn. He reached out to the Lady Eowyn and motioned for her to move away from the ranger.

Nodding to Eowyn, who would have still stood by his side, he appealed to the soldiers for their clemency. "Loyal soldiers of Rohan, I mean you no evil. It may not have come to you, but I am a guest in this house. The Lord Eomer kindly welcomed my companions and me to his home."

His explanation did not appease the men, and, if it was possible, it seemed their faces grew darker still. The man who appeared to be their leader glared hard at him and drew closer as he spoke. "The Lord Eomer is charged with treason. You, stranger, would do well to comply lest you, too, be implicated in his treachery."

With a smooth step, Aragorn moved towards the soldier, thinking that if he could convince this man not to hold them prisoner there might just be a chance.

But one of the younger soldiers had not the same shrewd judgement as his captain and, panicking, struck out with his sword arm. His heavy blade sliced easily through Aragorn's surcoat and into the tender skin of his side.

Aragorn pulled away sharply in surprise at the boy's sudden action and sucked in a breath at the sudden flare of pain and the rush of warm blood as he pressed his hand to the wound.

"Halt!" The captain grasped the young man's sword arm angrily. "I gave no order."

"But sir..." The young man's face was pale and damp with perspiration, and Aragorn almost pitied him. When war came to Rohan, this boy and many like him would not survive the harrowing brutality of the battlefield.

"Our orders are to escort the prisoner to the gates of the city." The leader looked to Aragorn and then away, as though he could not suffer to hold his gaze.

Two of the soldiers moved and took Aragorn's arms, and the captain fell into step behind them. The ranger then heard him speak to the young man. "Keep your wits, lad. War is coming, and against these traitors of Gondor your wits will be your best weapon."

It took little time them to reach the main door. Aragorn had a thought to ask for an audience with the king, yet it seemed Theoden no longer held sway over Rohan or its people.

A blast of heavy wind caught him full in the face as the heavy door swung open. The weather was grey, and the sun was as guarded and restrained as he himself felt at that moment in which he stood between the two stony guards. Yet the ferocity of the wind caught even the soldiers by surprise as they struggled down the great steps, shielding their eyes from the dust that sprung up in their faces.

A line of guards flanked the steep road to the gates, and all were silent, caught up in the wild weather and its sombre expression. There were no murmurs - only the voice of the wind and the crunch of feet as they followed the line to the gates. Aragorn stumbled frequently, for the ground beneath his feet was rough and the soldiers holding him stern and unbending. He recognised many of Eomer's men among the throng, their faces dark as they met his gaze.

He saw Hama's distinctive figure from across the road, and tried to attract his attention as the man glanced in his direction. The door warden quickly and discreetly made his way between to the group of soldiers to Aragorn's side. His face, when he reached him, betrayed his annoyance and distress. "I warned Eomer that his rash actions would come to this." The man shook his head, and it was very clear to Aragorn that his admiration and love for Eomer ran high, higher perhaps than his desire to mindlessly follow orders. He looked earnestly at Aragorn, noticing the other's strained expression. "You are wounded!"

He reached for the man's side, ignoring the restraining limbs of those who still held the ranger captive.

"A scratch," Aragorn murmured, pressing his arm more tightly against his side as though it could staunch the pain along with his blood. "What of Eomer?"

"He comes now." Hama's voice was grim as he gazed further down the road to where Eomer was being escorted between two guards. In the gale that swept across them Eomer's pale hair flew about his face, and it seemed strange that, even as a captive, his bearing was far prouder than those who held him. The horse lord was brought up to the large wall, before the great gate, and there Aragorn recognised the now familiar figure of Grima. The councillor stood upon the ground, and, though he had not the stature of a warrior, Aragorn's eyes felt drawn to him as if he embodied the spirit of this grey morn and all its powerful forces.

Aragorn watched the situation unfold with growing dread. Grima's pale eyes rested on Eomer for a moment, and the side of his mouth twitched. He then shifted his gaze further up the slope to where Aragorn and Hama stood, and again behind them, to where, if Aragorn turned his head, he could see Gimli.

The Dwarf had evidently been dragged from his sleep, for his thick hair was tousled, and the soldiers were attempting to restrain his ire. Aragorn almost pitied them. The fellowship had learned quickly that an irate Dwarf in the morning was a thing to be avoided at all costs.

It was a few moments before he could spot Pippin amongst the crowd, and at last he was relieved to see the Hobbit standing with the Lady Eowyn at the side of the proceedings, his curly hair strewn about by the wind.

One glance at the lady's face filled Aragorn with pity, for now she would lose her brother as she had lost father and cousin. Grima's eyes seemed to linger on Eowyn too, yet pity was not what Aragorn saw stirring in those pale depths.

At last Grima lifted up a parchment. "Eomer, son of Eomund, you are charged that you did willfully defy the orders of your king, and ride forth from Rohan in hindrance of our allies, thereby committing treason. The punishment for treason being banishment, there is no other choice but to banish you and all that follow you from this land."

Eomer strained against the arms holding him, and it pained Aragorn to see the desperation and frustration upon his features. "Snake! What says the king? What says my uncle? You may poison his words and make lies to rid yourself of those who oppose you, but the king is not the dullard you make him. What says he?"

Grima smiled, his thin lips curling back to reveal sharp teeth. he turned the parchment he held to face the crowd, and clearly visible upon the sheet was the signature of Theoden.

Eomer was silent then with shock, and, as Aragorn was pushed closer to the gateway, the disbelief upon Eomer's face seemed that of the young man he would have been had war not ravished his childhood. Grima approached him, and, as he passed, Aragorn barely managed to catch the whispered words. "I also expect more welcome news. I am sure your uncle will give his consent in this also." The man's pale eyes flickered meaningfully to the place where Eowyn stood with Pippin. Eomer stared at the man for a moment, and it seemed the wind had paused in anticipation. Then with a great yell threw himself forward. Grima had expected anger, grief perhaps, but this terrible rage shocked even Aragorn, who knew Eomer to be one of hot temper and great protectiveness for those he held dear.

Grima was knocked to the ground for the second time that morning and received a blow to his head before the guards recovered the strength and ability to drag their enraged captain back from the man upon the ground.

Eomer finally went down as a fist caught him in the chest and stole his breath.

* * *

Legolas knew now that something inside him had died when first the fires on the distant horizon had burned in his sight. Hope, perhaps. Faith. He could feel the loss now, eating away at him. Nothing could be said now of the glories of war, the valour of Elves, Men, Dwarves... and Hobbits. The thought of little Pippin almost choked him with sorrow. Even now the red haze from the fires clouded his vision, though he kept his eyes upon the trampled grass.

"The fire, it may not be what it seems." Faramir struggled to keep up with the Elf's long strides, yet it was now beyond Legolas to care. The words were hollow, without meaning or hope, as the man knew as well as he. There was nothing now that could quell the fires within him but the truth. Yet even then, though the burning ache might be appeased, he would drown in despair and grief.

He topped the rise, and the wind rose up, spitting ashes and foul fumes in his face as he stared down at the smoking pyre. He coughed, consumed by the realisation that the ashes... His eyes watered, whether from the smoke or the growing ache of despair and guilt, he did not know. He broke into a run, feeling the wind in his face. Faramir called out to him, not being able to follow, but the voice was caught in the wind, and he heeded it not.

The great pile of bodies rose before him, a black, charred array of limbs, armour, twisted weapons all smoking.

He picked his way through the rubble, helpless confusion fogging all his thoughts. Ugly heads with gruesome expressions of pain and anger glared down at him from the poles upon which they had been displayed. Their glares seemed to taunt him, blaming him for being too late. He did not know what he was searching for. Some sign, some indication that the horse-men, whose foot prints and hoof marks were clearly visible, had found Aragorn, Gimli and Pippin alive.

* * *

"No, Aragorn, you cannot ask this of me!"

Aragorn dropped to his knees before Pippin, taking the Hobbit's small shoulders in his hands and imploring him to understand. He was aware of the need to leave swiftly, for their horses were prepared and Eomer was already mounted, his normally open face darkened with bitterness and a bloody gash across his cheek, a parting gift from Grima.

"We will return," he promised. "I would not leave you here were it not so."

The look upon Pippin's face was enough to tear Aragorn's heart in two. "I will not be a burden to you," he pleaded. "I don't want to stay here. I want to ride with you and Gimli."

Aragorn sighed. "It is for your own protection." Pippin's expression told him that tact would get him nowhere. "And it is your duty!"

Pippin's eyebrows rose tiredly. "Duty?"

"I need you to do something for me. I can trust no one else. I need you to protect the Lady Eowyn."

Pippin sighed, seemingly caught between his fear at being left behind with strangers, and his desire to help in their fight.

"Eomer needs someone he can trust to protect his sister, and you are the only one who could do this. She is proud, and will not accept the aid of other men. She trusts you."

Pippin bit his lip, staring at the dust beneath his feet. The noise of shuffling horse hooves increased Aragorn's desperation, yet he needed to make sure Pippin decided for himself. "Saruman could be here at any moment. I want you to keep Eowyn out of sight. Do you understand?"

Pippin nodded, and with a sigh he finally met Aragorn's gaze.

Aragorn gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Do not let yourselves be seen."

He stood and took the reigns of the horse he had been given, looking back to see Gimli take his farewell from the Hobbit.

"I see you are abandoning me to the companionship of that scruffy ranger." The Dwarf patted Pippin fondly on his curls. Aragorn saw Pippin's attempt to smile fail as he grasped the Dwarf in an farewell embrace. "Mind that you take care of yourself, Master Hobbit, til we return."

With difficulty Gimli clambered up behind Aragorn, looking behind to see if Eomer was following. The horselord gazed up at his city, and Aragorn felt for him as he rode from the gates of his home perhaps for the last time. Something else, though, had caught the rider's eyes, and even as the three companions passed through the gates a horn sounded clearly.

"A salute?" Gimli suggested, glaring up at the city with narrowed eyes.

"Nay," Eomer shouted, turning his horse about. "A charge. My Eored, they come!"

And as Aragorn turned about his own steed he heard the thunder of the horse-hooves through the city, and the gleaming glint of helms of steel. They thundered from the gates, and it seemed as though the love they felt for their captain had held strong, for their number was hardly less than the patrol that had destroyed the Orcs the previous day.

They rode north, for it was Eomer's desire that they should wait and watch and be there should Edoras call for aid. For himself and Gimli, Aragorn had decided, they would ride with Eomer until safely out of the path of Saruman's approaching army and then make west for Isenguard. There, he hoped, they would find the answer to their long awaited question. What had become of Gandalf?

Aragorn looked back over his shoulder, and saw, or perhaps only imagined he saw, the small figure of Pippin standing by the tall gates.

* * *

Legolas shifted another charred orc helm with his foot, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. The wind threw his hair into his face, as though trying to break through any sense of sanity that still remained. They had been here perhaps an hour, and not for one moment had he halted his quest. He felt though that, for once, he was coming to the end of his endurance.

He stared blearily over at Faramir, who seemed to have given up some time before. The man had lowered himself to the ground, lying with his head on his hands while he stared vacantly at nothing. Legolas gritted his teeth angrily, realising pathetically at the same time that his own search was proving no more useful than his companion's.

He dropped to a crouch, resting his aching limbs, and wishing, with confounded irony, that he had Aragorn to help him decipher the ground beneath him. While Legolas valued his own tracking skills, somehow Aragorn had always managed to best him. Growing up with the devious Peredhil twins had no doubt honed his senses.

That, though, had Legolas wondering how he could ever break the news to Aragorn's adopted family, to Arwen... He closed his eyes and took a few shuddering breaths.

"Legolas!"

He looked up, catching some excitement in the other's tone, and feeling uncertain hope rise within.

Faramir was kneeling upon the grass, his eyes seeming wild and his hair brought upwards by the wind.

* * *

They ran, all weariness seeming to have fallen from them. Legolas grasped the small dirty golden belt in his hand tightly as the grass whipped against his legs. It seemed a miracle that Faramir had happened to choose the place where the Rohan wounded had been laid to rest, and further still that he had happened to notice the dust covered end of Pippin's belt aligned with the mark of where the litter had pressed against the earth. Surely this meant Pippin had been rescued from the flames and taken with the soldiers to Edoras.

He was aware of Faramir lagging behind now, and he slowed in his pace though it irked him to do so. Hope filled him and his morose state of mind seemed to have dissipated.

He waited till the other man reached his side, and a moment more till Faramir had caught his breath once more.

"Forgive me," Faramir said after a moment. "I am a burden, I know. I would move faster were it not for my shoulder."

Legolas shook his head, worried suddenly by the man's pallor. "It matters not, now, at least; we can hope they are safe."

Faramir nodded, raising his hand to press against his shoulder, "You should go on. I understand your haste. He has become a brother to you and losing him would be losing a part of yourself."

"Nay," Legolas smiled, feeling his wildly beating heart slow and a calm finally come upon him. He realised, perhaps for the first time, that Faramir and he were not so very different. The man had understood him despite Legolas' determined idea that he was trying to take Aragorn's place. They had both been striving for the same thing: to see Aragorn reclaim the throne of Gondor and to win their fathers' approval despite their personal loyalties. "It is not far now, and we can walk it together."


	29. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. I hope you persist with the story as it evolves - comments welcome - and happy reading :)

**Chapter 42 - Poison**

For a long time the golden hall had merely been a faint hint of colour on the horizon, a hazy vision mingling with his watery eyes and the hair that the wind threw across his face. Yet now the gates were closer than he had thought possible, and open, gleaming in the sun.

"There is something approaching," Legolas lifted a hand and peered across the bright field ahead. "Riders, I am certain."

Faramir looked also, calming his strained breath as gradually the figures came into view over the rise a short way ahead of them.

"Do you recognise anyone?" The Elf looked to him hopefully. "I would that it were someone we could trust. Men have little love for strangers at the best of times, and they will not take kindly to finding an Elf traversing their lands."

Faramir nodded, the Rohirrim were suspicious of foreigners, yet to ones known to them their hospitality and generosity, especially with ale, was unparalleled. "I wonder what they made of Gimli."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, and in his faint smile Faramir saw the Elf's imagination rise to the interesting thought.

As the riders drew nearer Faramir was surprised. "I can make out the first rider. He is well known to me. Hama, doorwarden to the king, and captain of his guard." He squinted into the bright light as the brilliant dark horse turned before them and circled, his guard following until they had formed a tight ring around the two companions.

"Is he trustworthy?" Faramir caught Legolas' eye as the Elf spoke, hoping with equal fervour that the man he had known for some years would give them the news they both longed to hear.

Hama's usually cheerful face was surprisingly dark as he lowered his spear to meet the eyes of the man and Elf. "Name yourselves quickly strangers, I have little patience this day."

"You were never one to murder your guests, Hama." Faramir lifted his arm to shield his face against the sun, wincing as he did so for the unconscious movement had sent a rush of pain and nausea from his shoulder through his entire form.

Hama peered more closely as Legolas laid a steadying hand on the man's shoulder in case he should waver. Faramir could feel the captain's eyes studying him as he dismounted. Hama gave Legolas a weary look, and did not yet give the order for his guards to lower their spears.

It seemed such as strange thing to see a familiar face after all this time that Faramir could feel a slight smile lighting his face despite the pain. "Well met, Hama.

"My eyes do not deceive me!" The man's eyes widened after another moment of scrutiny. "It is Faramir returned at last! Forgive me for my caution but I did not recognise you under all that grime."

Faramir looked down at himself, noting that his once neat and clean appearance had been utterly transformed, first by the rain and trip down the Anduin, and then by his fall down the muddy slope upon Amon Hen. The clothes which had been cleaned and mended for him in Lorien were now torn and dark with mud, and the ragged bandage about his shoulder had soaked through till it was blood streaked and dirty. A glance at his companion further dampened his pride as the Elf seemed hardly to have a hair out of place.

"I see what it is." Hama smiled fondly, and his eyes seemed to be laughing silently at some memory. "You have begun to take after your brother. He never minded the weather or the mud, but you, Faramir, were always perfectly turned out. I sincerely hope you do not plan to follow in his footsteps. If that were so then I would suggest that you have misplaced the horse we lent you when last you were here."

Legolas' baffled expression at this speech was enough to cause Faramir to smile broadly and to grasp the warden's arm in welcome. "It is a joy to me to see you safe, Hama. I have sorely missed your good humour." Faramir felt his good spirits fade quickly again as his thoughts turned. "We have come many miles on the trail of our companions who were taken by Orcs. Can you not ease our hearts with news?"

Hama's expression too had become glum, and Faramir could now see clearly the heavy darkness beneath his eyes.

"Some cursed fate pursues you," Hama said, shaking his head.

Faramir felt Legolas start almost violently beside him, so sure they had both been of their friend's rescue. The Elf interrupted the man before he could go on, "What mean you? Are they dead?"

Confusion twisted Hama's features, "Nay, I meant only that they departed but a few hours since, exiled on the King's orders."

Faramir sucked in a sharp breath, barely able to think over the sudden elation that took his senses. Legolas seemed similarly affected, and grasped Hama's arm in his excitement. "They were well?"

"A little bruised," Hama smiled, "and the Dwarf none too pleased by being dragged from his sleep."

Faramir realised he had rarely seen Legolas smile, and when he did so then it seemed the light and mischievous glimmer in the Elf's eyes kindled his own joy at the thought of seeing Gimli's gruff countenance once more. "The foolish creature," Legolas smiled, shaking his head. "Sleeping while we traipsed over these endless fields.." He met Hama's eyes, realising what he had said. "Forgive me, I mean no offence to your lands."

"And none taken." Hama smiled, reassuringly. "But come, we have tarried here too long. Your Halfling is still within the city."

"Pippin remained behind?" Faramir felt a shadow of doubt drift over him, and wondered on what grounds could Aragorn had left the hobbit in a strange city with no other friend.

"Aye, and having been so recently abandoned he will welcome friendly faces."

"The same cannot be said for the king." The voice came from behind him and Faramir looked up as one of the rider's dismounted neatly and approached Hama, pulling on the captain's sleeve as no common soldier aught. He was small in stature and Faramir realised with surprise that he was only a boy, dressed in the battle gear of a man twice his age.

The boy turned to Faramir and Legolas and bowed slightly. "I mean no disrespect to his lordships but Rohan's gates no longer welcome strangers." The boy was young, and round faced so that would have appeared cheerful were it not for the deep lines of weariness beneath the eyes.

Hama placed a hand on the boy's head, tousling the hair that was the same shade as his own. "Hiri, I let you ride out with me, and then you speak out like this?"

Hiri looked up at his father, and asked in a voice that tried to hide his hurt confusion, "but I am right, am I not?"

"I would not have put it quite like that." Hama smiled fondly, giving Faramir and Legolas a knowing glance. "But come. Hiri, you must take Faramir behind you, and master.." he paused.

"Legolas." The Elf nodded.

"Master Legolas can ride with me."

Faramir grimaced at the thought of climbing into a saddle, and then again as he was forced to admit his pain to Hama. "I fear I cannot ride."

Hama's eyes swept over the bloodied bandage that wrapped his shoulder and seemed to take it in his stride. "I will take you before me then, for I have much news you must hear."

With his good hand, Faramir gripped Hama's outstretched arm and managed to climb into the saddle with only a small grimace of pain.

Beside him, Legolas was already mounted and Faramir smiled as he saw the expression of Hama's young son as he looked up at the Elf in front of him. It seemed he was barely resisting the urge to touch the Elf's silken hair of which the boy had never seen the like. Legolas' face did not betray his impatience, but the touch of his hand upon the horse's long neck, and the way he shifted in the saddle told Faramir he was longing to lay eyes on Pippin and see that the Hobbit was safe.

* * *

The great doors opened onto a dimly lit hall. Hama led the way through the low room, an antechamber where the flickering light from the torches mounted on the walls cast strange shadows on the floor beneath their feet.

It was a relief to Legolas to hear the heavy bolt of the door behind them come to, and to be out of sight of the prying gazes of the suspicious onlookers of Edoras. He had never before felt so keenly what it was to be an Elf. Finally he understood some of what Gimli and Faramir must have felt in Lorien, and perhaps even among the elves in distant Imladris.

Their feet sounded loudly on the stone floor, patterned with many coloured tiles. There were men guarding the door to the king's hall, as there had been outside, and their faces were suspicious and, he thought, somewhat unfriendly, yet they moved aside as they recognised their captain.

The warm-feelings Legolas had begun to develop for the sturdy Hama, having been momentarily chilled by the news of the dangerous political situation in the south, rose again as the man bid them farewell.

Hama's own expression was glum as he reached to take Legolas' arm in turn. "May you have more luck than your companions," he said. "The King has as keen a wit as any, if left to his own devices, but if I were in your place I would guard your backs."

"We will not forget your aid, Hama. Perhaps we may even be able to return the favour, and set right some of what has gone amiss." Faramir touched his hand to Hama's son's curly head. "Farewell, Hiri. Look after your father, and make sure he takes care of himself also."

The boy set his chin, and said "I will."

An almost stale odour closed about them as they entered the hall. The air was so still it seemed as though Legolas' own breath stirred the dust that swirled slowly about them, lit up by the great windows slanting light down from the rafters. There were others in the hall also; standing in the darker corners, watching the entrance of the two companions.

Together Legolas and Faramir moved forward cautiously, and Legolas saw with some relief that Faramir's expression was as determined as his own. Their reception had been discourteous at the very least, and from what Hama had told them about Aragorn and Gimli, the situation could quickly become far more dangerous.

Faramir touched his arm as they skirted the large brazier set in the floor, and murmured, "I do not like the sound of this councillor of which Hama spoke. If I were to guess I would say he is the cause of this unrest."

Legolas nodded almost imperceivably, feeling the man's eyes upon him, waiting for his assessment. "Whether or not he is an agent of Saruman or simply seeks to gain control of Rohan for his own purposes, he has the ear of the King."

The thought brought to light memories of his own father's court, and the thought brought a faint smile to Legolas' lips. Gaining the King of Mirkwood's ear in any matter that concerned his people was a trial indeed, one in which even his own son had never quite mastered.

The figure on the throne, as they approached, however, was as unlike to Thranduil as could be imagined. Dark eyes, sunken into dark hollows, followed their progress through the hall, and the gaze unnerved even Legolas, who had expected for not all to be right. With hands clasped deadly still upon his lap, and backed by proud shields of green collecting dust, the King of Rohan regarded his noble guests.

Legolas watched Faramir out of the corner of his eye, not knowing the proper procedure and feeling strangely vulnerable.

"Hail Theoden King."

It was difficult to conjure the blank serenity that was required with all the worries and fears filling his mind, yet he would attempt it, if only for a little while. Fortunately Faramir had managed to adopt a manner that was a pleasant mixture of old friend and the respectful visitor. More stark a transformation Legolas had rarely seen.

"It is not so long since I was last graced by your hospitality, my Lord," Faramir had said to the King, "yet once again I must thank you for your welcome."

Theoden shifted slightly in his chair, "You might once have looked for welcome here, son of Denethor, and once we would have offered it freely to friends from Gondor. But the days have grown dark, and darker still are the tidings that have come to us from the south.

"I was counselled to cast you from the city, you and your strange companion." Legolas felt the King's sunken eyes come to rest on himself, and he held Theoden's gaze, yet not without feeling great unrest. He had the sudden sensation that something was staring out at him from those dark hollows. At last the eyes looked away, and returned to Faramir. "I would know, however, what we are to face in the coming days." Faramir seemed untroubled by the keen gaze, for he spoke with an elevation and comradery that Legolas could not himself feel. He thought for a moment that perhaps it was heightened Elvish senses that enabled himself to perceive this shadow of a threat in the face of the king, yet then he looked sideways he saw that behind the animated features and fine words, Faramir's eyes remained hard, and the face was smiling with strain rather than mirth.

Behind the King, Legolas noticed that another man stood almost shadowed by the great green banners. He moved for the first time as Faramir was speaking, and Legolas was sure that this was the Grima of which Hama had spoken.

"My lord, I come not from Minas Tirith," Faramir was explaining in defence of his ignorance of the volatile political situation. "I come out of the north, and with me comes Legolas of Mirkwood. We had heard nothing of your fears ere the lord Hama spoke with us, but believe me when I say that my father does nothing but for the good of Gondor. He would think no more of betraying our allies and fellow men than laying down our swords before the Black Gate itself."

Theoden seems slightly moved "you speak with sincerity, and your words may indeed hold some truth, but I will not be so easily swayed by hollow promises."

Legolas saw quickly the impossible nature of the situation. There was nothing they could say to dissuade the King from believing his own councillors. Frustration had begun to eat away at him, and he longed to escape the stagnant hall and its corrupt councils.

Legolas shot a look at Faramir as Grima moved out of the shadows, receiving a similar glance in return. "You do well to question, my lord," the counsellor nodded, placing a white hand on the arm of Theoden's chair. "After all, why should we believe you, son of Denethor? Is it not your blood that has betrayed us? What can you tell us of your father's mind save that you are not privy to his thoughts. It is well known you are not even deemed fit to attend his council."

Faramir's lips were pressed together and bloodless. The genial facade had been dropped, and Grima's mouth twitched as he saw how deeply he had struck.

Legolas felt his anger rise once more, and this time did not bother to restrain it. "My lord Theoden," he said, ignoring the King's quickly raised hand. "You speak of deceit, of hollow promises and yet this snake whispers poison in your ears even as you cast away the only ones who could bring you aid."

Legolas saw at once that Theoden was beginning to waver, and Grima saw it too. "What aid do you bring, Elf?" the counsellor asked quickly, stepping down from the dais to approach him. "Archers to protect our walls? That I would call aid. If Gondor has forsaken us and laid us bare to the red eye we must turn elsewhere for aid."

Legolas felt disgust rise in him as Grima found yet another way to twist their words in his favour.

"Where would you suggest, Lord Grima?" Faramir inclined his head as the counsellor passed by Legolas and came to him. Legolas saw that something of the old fire had returned to his companion's eyes. "That the King turn to Saruman in his plight, as you did once, did you not?"

Grima rounded on them, and the transformation was alarming even to Legolas who had felt the evil about the man from the very first.

"What does the wizard pay you Grima? What has he promised in return for your service?"

The man's lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl, and Legolas felt as though he could do nothing but watch in horrified fascination as he turned on Faramir. The ferocity of the man's bearing and the uncontrolled anger in his eyes was enough to cause Legolas to instinctively reach for his weapon, realising too late that it had been requisitioned at the door. Grima struck out at Faramir, but he was slow, encumbered by heavy robes and lack of recent activity. Faramir easily caught the wrist of his assailant and grasped it, drawing back the sleeve before Grima could defend himself.

The pale skin was blotchy in places but the old scar showed out clear and damning, the mark of the white hand. It was not a hard deduction to make, Legolas had suspected it himself, having only lacked the proof to speak on it. Now that had that proof.

As Faramir attempted to turn Grima's arm as evidence towards the king, the man managed to twist out of his hold swivelling around until he was able to drive back, throwing his entire strength into Faramir's right side. He went down immediately, clutching his injured shoulder. At the same moment Legolas swiftly made a grab for Grima, realising their only chance was slipping away like water through their fingers, but the worm slid safely out of reach, signing his recruited men in the hall to form a protective circle.

"You see my lord how these conspirators hoped to lull you into idleness, and then strike out as our backs are turned," Grima spoke again to the king.

Legolas clenched his fists by his sides as he knelt down by Faramir. The man groaned, half with pain, Legolas thought, and half with the frustration he also was feeling. The lies the counsellor was spitting out would more than convince the already confused king. Their attempt at proving Grima a traitor appeared no more than an unprovoked attack without the evidence of Grima's brand to support their argument, and there was no way now that Grima would risk giving them a second chance at exposing his secret.

"I am afraid there can be no other explanation," Theoden said, and he seemed almost to sigh. "Yet I am saddened by the fact... That Gondor could betray us to the enemy without a thought for all the innocent children..."

"Do not worry, my king. You need not fear for Rohan, Saruman has already gifted us all his forces and they will arrive before long. You must not trouble yourself," Grima met Legolas' eyes as he spoke, "I will take care of these two."

* * *

"You had a chance, and you took it."

"And failed in the attempt." Faramir clenched his hand into a fist as Legolas prodded attempted to assess the damage to his shoulder.

"Some blood, and no doubt bruising." The Elf drew the cloth back over the wound. "I do not like the look of it and I would that Aragorn were here."

Faramir stood, pulling his cloak back around him. It was dark and damp and his feet echoed on the stone floor. "They will go to Minas Tirith, most likely." He crossed the small floor in a matter of three or four steps, then turned back. "Aragorn will not have waited. We have to have trust that they will reach the city in time to warn against the coming of Saruman. As fate would have it, we will not be given the same chance."

"There will be another time to make an appeal to the king." Legolas was attempting to be reassuring, and the tone of his voice was not particularly convincing.

There was silence for a moment, neither of them having anything comforting to offer. The sound of Faramir's breathing and his footsteps upon the floor seemed loud to him in the dark cell.

He looked up suddenly as Legolas sprang up and moved over the far wall. "Must you pace backwards and forwards in such a manner?" Legolas had leaned his hands against the stone of the wall, his back to Faramir. "The space is small enough for my liking without being constantly reminded of it."

Faramir stopped his pacing, hearing the tremor in the other's voice. "Forgive me," he said, looking for any sign that the Elf was listening. "I had not thought "

There was, in the silence that followed, another voice.

At first it seemed merely an echo of the previous conversation, but it came again. Legolas turned quickly, his face pale but his eyes alight. Together they made for the door in time for it to open a crack, showing a small figure in the candle-light beyond.

"Pippin!"

The broad grin of the Hobbit brought joy to Faramir's heart in a rush, and soon he was bending down by Legolas to give the young Took a mighty hug.

"We have found you at last!" Pippin spoke quietly, pushing the door to and bolting it once more. "We have taken longer than we meant, for there are hundreds of cells below the city and the guards moved too quick for me to give chase."

Following the Hobbit round a bend in the dark corridor, Legolas asked "How did you get into the prison?"

"Not that you could not achieve the same result by yourself." Faramir smiled.

"Not at all," Legolas nodded.

Pippin went on, "I did have a little help, Eowyn and I have schemed for some time in an attempt to rescue you. She has lived here all her life, you see, and knows hidden passages that that horrid man could never find."

They turned the corner and there she was, waiting for them. She held a candle, the light of which was eclipsed slightly by a curtain of golden hair. She was wearing white, Faramir saw, and was very pale. It was the appearance of her face, he realised, more than her dress that surprised him; her expression so very calm and cold and yet her eyes burned with life such as he had never seen.

They followed her throughout the twisting rooms, like a bird guiding lost sailors back to shore. Faramir could not but be aware of his heavier tread compared to that of Legolas, and the desperation he felt lest that white figure should fade and leave them alone in the dark.

* * *

They emerged at last up a winding stair into a small dimly-lit hall. The Lady Eowyn turned finally to face them, and in the light of the room the mystery of her person faded. She seemed tired and worn out with care, yet her bearing remained straight and she did not show anything upon her face. The look of her eyes, however, would not leave Faramir, and even as he thought of it after, the pain he had seen there seemed to pierce him also.

"You must forgive my uncle, he does not know his own mind," she was saying. "The lord Hama has prepared horses for you, and we will go now to the stables, there I must say farewell."

"Will you not ride with us, my lady?" Faramir found himself asking.

Legolas glanced at him sternly, his eyes expressing annoyance and confusion. "It would not be wise. We will ride long and hard to reach Minas Tirith before the army of Saruman."

"That is precisely why she cannot stay here."

"My lords." Eowyn's tone held anger, and both man and Elf looked to her. "I come and go at my own will. I thank you for your concerns but I will do what I discern to be for the best. My duty is to the king."

Faramir knew then that he could no longer pity the lady of Rohan for her trouble, for she was too proud and wilful to even pity herself.

"Well said," Pippin said, pressing his lips together in satisfaction. "Now shall we go? I for one would rather not spend breakfast with Saruman."

"Nor second breakfast either, I suppose?"

Pippin frowned good-naturedly at Faramir. "If you had an appetite as large as a Hobbit, you would not be laughing about it."

Legolas shook his head at both of them, exchanged a glace with Eowyn, and ruffled Pippin's curly hair.

* * *

The hall was ominous in the dark but they reached the great gates without even a murmur of trouble. Passing out into the antechamber Faramir listened carefully for the slightest sound that might be following them.

He could not hear anything distinct, it was what he felt that disturbed him. The ground seemed to be moving beneath their feet, shaking slightly as though they stood in the path of a herd of stampeding oliphants. Legolas was standing still, his body seemingly attuned with his senses. Faramir watched him fearfully, a growing dread swelling inside him.

Pippin however, had not noticed the others, and was already reaching to open the heavy door.

"Do not!"

Legolas' shout was too late. Pippin had tugged on the door until it swung open on its heavy hinges. A blaze of light took them all in the face, blinding them. The vague awareness that it should be the calm light of dusk outside came to him, and the unnatural light faded slightly so they could see what was spread before them.

They stood at the very pinnacle of Edoras, the steps leading down from the great hall. From here the plains of Rohan were spread out before them in their green splendour. Yet now they were not green. It did not occur to Faramir at first that the black mass covering the fields was moving, shifting like some black stretch of water out as far as they could see. When his eyes focused and he could make out the dark helms glinting in the failing sun, the thousand tiny spear heads, the armour, he recognised the army. The dark figures of orcs were in the city also, cloaking the streets in black ants crawling up the steep slope to meet them. At they head, the only white figure among them, holding a staff aloft from which shone forth the light that had at first blinded them, was Saruman the White.


	30. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 43 - Pain**

Pippin gripped his blade so hard that his fingers had begun to ache.

The sun was rising and every moment the shadows on the plains around Edoras grew lighter, revealing more and more Orcs. Pippin had never seen so many, not even on the banks of the Anduin. It was hopeless, and yet somehow it was not in him to believe there was no chance of escape.

"We cannot give up like this!" he cried, looking up at his companions.

Legolas pushed them back further into the dark as the new light of morning stretched through the open doorway of the great hall. "The city is completely surrounded, the army have formed a great ring around the city. There is no escape, and our hiding may only bring down the wizard's wrath upon the people of the city."

As an Elf, Pippin supposed, Legolas could see far more of their enemies than his own Hobbit sight could reveal.

Eowyn stepped around Legolas, retaking her position at the door. She shook her head when Legolas again attempted to draw her back, and hissed, "It may be hopeless but we can still fight."

In only a day with her at Edoras Pippin had seen the lady's great determination, but he knew that this time it was in vain. Her eyes were wild and desperate, her brow and the hand which gripped her sword glistening in the light. She knew as well as Legolas that there was no escape for them. Pippin could only imagine what he would feel like if it was his own dear little house surrounded by Orcs.

"Saruman is not here for Edoras," Faramir said in a low voice. A stillness had come upon him and Pippin could see the man's mind working. "He is here for her men and her horses."

"When he finds us," Legolas said darkly, "he will force us to reveal where the object of our quest now lies." His eyes flickered to Eowyn, unwilling to speak openly before one not of their fellowship.

"Then we must not tell him," Pippin put in, feeling that this was obvious but not understanding why it needed to be said aloud.

"Saruman has created a force just as devastating as that which spills forth from Barad-dûr, has spent years infiltrating Rohan to strengthen that army and gain a force that could rival the dark tower itself..."

"If we must die to protect our secret then die we must."

Talking of noble deaths was all very well, Pippin thought as he stared up at his two companions, but facing up to the reality of it would be another matter. How could he hide what he knew under threat of pain and fear? He had not been tested and as such he could not know his own strength.

"Perhaps we can achieve more with our knowledge than die to protect it." Faramir had a dark twist to his mouth as he spoke. "Perhaps we can convince Saruman of another truth..."

Legolas' eyes were suddenly alight, but Pippin had no idea what was being proposed. "If we were sure enough of our story..." Legolas trailed off, his brow creased as he fingered the fletching of his arrow. "And there was reason enough to believe it was the truth..."

Faramir nodded, "Precisely, and there is reason enough. Fortunately the fellowship have always taken the least logical of paths."

Eowyn was watching the exchange with eyebrows raised and Pippin almost expected her to interrupt and tell them how foolish they were being.

"This would be a deadly road to take if we did not believe our companions will succeed in their endeavour," Faramir was saying.

"It is your city at stake," Legolas looked to the other with some trepidation.

"I placed my faith in Mithrandir long ago," Faramir said quietly, "and after all, what is another unconquerable army when one already knocks at the gates?"

A smile touched the corners of Legolas' mouth at this, but after a moment he looked grave. "Saruman will not easily take this bait. We may need to make him believe that the knowledge, our truth, is given only under coercion."

"We have no choice but to make him believe it the truth." Faramir's voice was steady, although Pippin saw his gaze shift towards himself.

"You sound like children playing at war-games". Eowyn shook her head scornfully, but Pippin saw understanding and something akin to affection in her words.

Pippin jumped as he heard iron boots climbing the many steps leading up to the great hall.

Faramir stepped forward and grasped Eowyn's wrist, meeting her slightly softened gaze with his own. "Please, lady, go back to your rooms. You are the first daughter of the city and must stay safe to protect your people."

Pippin hoped for a moment that she would agree, but she turned away her head and shook herself free of his hold. "What good would it do to hide now? We must not let the people of the city be taken in their beds, we must raise them to the danger!"

"That would be unwise." The voice came from behind them. They turned as one to see Wormtongue and a group of men cutting off any escape back into the hall.

* * *

The figure sitting with his back against the remains of what had once been a rampart of stone did not look up at their approach.

"The towers." Eomer looked across at his two companions in wide-eyed wonderment. "They are beaten into the dust."

Gimli felt equal amazement. Around them was a ruin, where the dwindling remains of a battle of elements still fought on. Their horses' hooves were forced to pick delicately amid a great lake of water, waist high (for a dwarf), with small flames still clinging desperately to the floating debris.

Gimli looked around with some disappointment, feeling it a pity that they themselves had not been given the chance to participate in the destruction of Saruman's fortress.

"Some devilry has been here."

"Not devilry, perhaps, but something with a stronger power than that of Saruman." Aragorn was looking towards the old man sitting not far off. They could not quite see his face, as he was turned to face the forest ringing the outer rim of the rim of Isengard. He seemed the only living thing in the place.

Gimli felt a strange doubt come upon him, and unconsciously clenched his fist around the head of his axe. He exchanged glances with Eomer beside him as Aragorn nudged their horse forwards. The ground was unsteady beneath them, yet Gimli did not fear falling. The horse of Rohan's feet were steady, and together they ploughed through the damp wreckage until they came within a few steps of the old man.

His hair was white, and he wore no hat. White garments, the lower portion grey with murky water, clothed him. He did not seem to hear their approach. This disturbed Gimli more than anything, and an uneasy feeling began to grow inside his chest. The similarity of this figure to Eomer's rumoured description of Saruman was disturbingly close. Eomer too seemed to have sensed this likeness, and his horse was skittish as if disturbed by its rider's feelings.

Gimli sniffed as the smoke from the old man's pipe blew in their direction. It was a wholesome, satisfying smell that reminded him of something far off, or long ago.

"You must excuse us, good sir," Aragorn said as a beginning. Still the figure did not turn to face them, choosing instead to blow a smoke ring in the air. Aragorn glanced back at his companions, raising an eyebrow. "Will you not give us news of what has become of the citadel of Saruman?"

The pipe was removed and carefully set aside. When he still did not face them Eomer drew his mount closer to theirs. "He is a deaf old fool," he said in a half whisper, his eyes intent on theirs. "Or if indeed he is the White Wizard, playing a part, let him turn and face us. We are being poisoned by the smoke of his pipe most likely without knowing it."  
The figure seemed to turn slightly as they looked back at him, as though finally acknowledging their presence at last. "White Wizard, son of Eorl? An interesting choice of words, yes, an interesting choice indeed."

That voice! In just a few words Gimli felt his resolve wavering. It seemed almost duelled in its tone. Cold and yet compelling, foreign yet strangely familiar. Gimli began to regret his long standing argument with Legolas over the merits of axe over bow. He would give much for the skill of a bowman at this moment.

Aragorn seemed to have maintained the use of his wits. "Will you not show us your face."

Gimli felt no such calm, fearing that giving the White Wizard another chance to speak would destroy his resolve all together. "Do not hesitate," he hissed to Aragorn.

From his right he heard Eomer speak, "It Is Saruman! We must strike now!"

"No!" The figure turned at last to face them.

"Gandalf! It cannot be!"

Gimli felt himself staring open mouthed as Gandalf, who they all thought they had lost, once again stood before them, holding up his familiar pipe. "There really is nothing like the pipeweed of the Shire."

Aragorn was upon the ground in a moment, and to Gimli it seemed as though the ranger's body had visibly relaxed and shed much of its previous burden. "My dear old friend," he said, "I see you have not changed."

"Ah, but there you are wrong." The familiar face smiled tiredly up at Gimli and Eomer in greeting, then beckoned Aragorn to sit beside him amid the rubble of Isengard. His face had changed, Gimli noticed. He was almost unhealthily thin, his once bright eyes dark and sunken slightly. A vivid bar of flesh had been raised in a line from his eye to the cheek, but his manner and voice remained familiar. "We have both changed much - I have passed through fire and water, and now, at the turn of the tide I return to you as Gandalf the White. All things are now set in motion, and we must also be moving."

Dismounting clumsily from the great height and giving his horse a thankful rub, Gimli asked, "But where are we to go, now you have finally returned to us?"

"To Minas Tirith. Little choice is left. Even now the claw of Mordor strikes them from the East, and unbeknownst to them Saruman and the army of the white hand marches to Edoras and then on into Gondor."

Eomer, it seemed, still did not trust the wizard. It was little wonder, Gimli thought, after being so recently betrayed by another. "You give up my people as a lost cause," the man said with fists clenched in helpless frustration, "yet I cannot so quickly abandon hope for their survival. Why go we not to Edoras?"

Gandalf shook his head quickly, his brow furrowed. "The people of Rohan need fear nothing from Saruman yet," he told Eomer. "They are of use to him, at least for the present, or he would not have formed such a scheme. I have found out much from my inhospitable stay here and I can see now how his mind works. With Rohan's army allied with his own he will march on Gondor from the south, as though on Sauron's orders."

Aragorn rose quickly, "The people of Minas Tirith must be warned."

"They will be," Gandalf assured him.

Like many of Gandalf's answers his vague response was not enough for Aragorn. "I will go"

"You will not overtake the army," Eomer shook his head, "They will have reached Eodoras at first light."

Aragorn went to the reigns of his horse, and stroked the creature upon his nose reassuringly. "They will be delayed a while at Edoras, and now no time can be lost. I do not ask any to follow me."

Gimli had expected such a response and almost smiled at his friend's predictable resolve. "Oh no you don't. You're not leaving me behind."

They both looked to Eomer, yet the young man shook his head. "I would come with you, yet I fear for my sister and uncle. I cannot ride to Gondor until I know they are well."

Gandalf rose to his feet also. "I will also ride with you to Edoras, to see King Theoden," he said. "In time, I hope, we may be able to muster a force to send to Minas Tirith."

Aragorn shook his head. "I fear we have little time - and yet to part again so soon..."

"Fear not, my friend," the wizard said kindly, "Go to the aid of your city, and I will do what I can."

Aragorn raised a faint smile in reply. "It is not yet _my_ city"

"Trust to hope and it may yet turn its face upon us. And do not forget that mountains paths are long and the open plains watched by unfriendly eyes. There is yet another way. You are in haste, and should not forget the road that runs beneath all others, that which no other man may walk. But no more time can be spared for talk. Let us say farewell."

* * *

"That would be unwise." The voice came from behind them. They turned as one to see Wormtongue and a group of men cutting off any escape from the hall. …

Pippin gritted his teeth at the voice.

"You had better think carefully before doing anything foolish," the hated man said, never taking his eyes off the lady. "There is more at risk here than your own lives."

Eowyn rounded on him, swinging up her shining blade to point at his face."How long have you been at the call of Saruman, snake? How long have your words poisoned my uncle's thoughts?"

"Be kind enough to leave my emissary in tact, Lady of Rohan."

Pippin spun at the new voice to see the white figure of the wizard slowly ascending the last steps to enter the hall, followed by a large accompaniment of Orcs.

Pippin hadn't known many wizards in his time, and Saruman was as unlike to Gandalf as he could imagine. A long face with a sharp nose and thin lips. His hair was a colour Pippin found difficult to describe; it seemed white, and yet seemingly not through age, drawn back from the face in a harsh way that made Pippin long for Gandalf's familiar, weather-beaten features.

His sharp gaze swept the four figures quickly, and Pippin, meeting the gaze, suddenly felt as though he was laid bare, his innermost feelings read and cast aside.

"Lordly and heroic Grima may not be," the wizard smiled with an air of benevolent amusement, "but he has his uses."

Pippin knew Saruman to be old, older perhaps even than Gandalf, the wizard gave a deceptive air of youth and seemed intense and alive. What disturbed Pippin most, however, was his smile.

Eowyn's hand faltered, and her sword arm fell to rest harmlessly by her side. Pippin saw confusion in her eyes, as though she knew not what she did.

Pacified, Saruman turned his attention to the members of the fellowship who still gripped their weapons. "Your company is somewhat diminished from the hopeful band who set forth from the home of Elrond half-elven many months ago."

Pippin felt as though something was crawling inside him as he resisted the impulse to tell this man everything he had ever known. It was the voice, so kind, warm and compelling - like Gandalf... Then, resisting that association for what seemed like agonising moments, he finally felt the wizard's presence withdraw from his mind.

"You need not try your tricks with us, Saruman," Legolas said coldly, and the Elf's clear, firm voice shook Pippin from the smoke that seemed to have filled his head, "we will tell you nothing."

"Tricks?" The Istar smiled, his tone lightly amused as the edge of his mouth curled upwards. "Such crude devices were sure to have no effect on your mind, Legoloas, son of Thranduil, but there are lesser minds that might have been bent to my will." His gaze flickered to Pippin and the Hobbit drew himself up, resisting the sluggish feeling in his head for the sake of his pride. "What Gandalf sees in these halflings I cannot guess."

Saruman's gaze was raking the Hobbit's mind again, probing gently but insistently into his innermost feelings. Pippin struggled against it but he felt himself becoming more and more confused.

"How then," Faramir interjected, "did they slip so easily through all your nets?"

The wizard's smile hardened. "Sharp your mind may be, son of Denethor, but for all your fabled foresight you see very little."

"But there is no time now for bandying with words. My need is pressing and I will have answers." He moved forwards and slid the lady Eowyn's arm into his. "Bring them," he told Grima, and grasped Pippin's arm also, moving off towards the centre of the hall, dragging the Hobbit with him.

Twisting in the wizard's painful hold, Pippin struggled to keep up with the great strides, while craning his neck around to see what had happened to Legolas and Faramir. They had been seized by several Orcs that had followed their master into the hall and were having their wrists bound before them.

Pippin realised that he was breathing hard, his heart fit to break out of his chest. Saruman's long nails were digging into the soft skin on his arm and he focused on the pain - that at least took his mind off what was to come.

They came into the circle of light cast by the great burning brazier near the centre of the hall, and Pippin looked around at the strained faces of his companions.

"Now my lady." Saruman removed his arm from Eowyn's. "You will draw your King from his hiding place."

"If you think I will raise one hand to aid you..."

"I would consider before you make any threats." Again the wizard seemed amused at their resistance. "There is an army surrounding Edoras that could run your city into the ground while your horsemen still lie a bed. But that is not my wish. Or yours?"

When she did not respond Saruman's eyes became dangerous. Pippin felt fingers suddenly grasping him around the throat, pressing so hard that at once he was choking and spluttering for air. He flailed his arms, trying to break the wizard's grip but every second he grew weaker. His vision was almost consumed by sharp points darkness when suddenly the pressure was gone, and he fell to the floor gasping and sucking in great mouthfuls of the cool air.

When Pippin finally came to himself Eowyn's footsteps were receding as she hurried away to do the Wizard's bidding. Pippin was lying on the floor, still short of breath as his neck had been bruised by the wizard's cruel strength.

Saruman was no longer facing him and was already seeking answers.

Pippin spared one last thought for Frodo, Sam and Merry, and then tried to wipe all memory of them from his thoughts. He concentrated on trivial facts and hoped that the rumours he had heard from the men of Rohan concerning Saruman's mind reading were only idle talk.

Saruman moved forward, and despite his determination to be brave Pippin flinched backwards, now frightened of the wizard's painful touch. But this time Saruman was only stepping closer to Legolas so that the Elf, who Pippin had always thought of as tall, suddenly appeared a slender grey figure against the blazing white of the wizard's robes. "Realise now," Saruman whispered, his long nails that had cut into Pippin's throat now raking the Elf's cheek, "that if any of you attempt to match your will with mine, you will lose."

Legolas met the wizard's gaze but Pippin saw him pale.  
"Reveal to me the bearer of the One Ring. Tell me where Isildur's bane can be found."

Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence that followed, and Pippin shrank back, clenching his teeth as the wizard seemed to grow in his anger.

The Orc holding Faramir, at some unspoken command, forced him towards the brazier. Saruman drew a poker from the flames, lifting the heated metal rod so that the thick glowing end was reflected in their eyes.

Pippin squinted through bleary vision as Legolas' calm facade splintered and he lurched forwards, almost breaking his captor's hold. "Do not do this, Saruman," he shook his head, "there is nothing we can tell you."

Pippin couldn't tell if Legolas' plea was part of the plan or a true appeal for mercy, but the Hobbit felt real panic rise within himself.

The Istar calmly ignored the Elf, with his free hand gripping Faramir's bound hands, baring his forearms. "You feared fire, even as a child," Pippin heard the wizard say quietly. "Why was that? The smell, bodies, flesh burning..."

Pippin felt sick. As Faramir gritted his jaw and fought Saruman's hold there was something Pippin recognised in the man's eyes: a dark blinding horror fighting all rational control.

Legolas' voice when he spoke was quiet and imploring. "What can we tell you? We know nothing..."

Pippin, knowing he had to do something, lunged forwards without any thought of what he would do afterwards, just hoping to knock Saruman away from his purpose. He should have known better. A vicious hand caught him about the waist before he had covered half the distance and an Orc gripped his struggling body. He fought, but could not break the hold.

The hiss of the fire on flesh filled his ears and he cried out, unaware of everything but anger for his friend. He struggled, but the Orc pressed him firmly to the paved floor of the hall, a knee in his back and a large hand on the back of his head. After a brief struggle he forced himself to be still, making his body limp and his breathing calm.

The room suddenly seemed very quiet, the fire crackled, and the Orcs' metal shod feet shifted across the hard floor. There was another sound also, that of laboured breaths, which he took to be Faramir's.

"What are you willing to sacrifice?" Saruman's voice now echoed in the quiet space, and Pippin craned his neck upwards to try and see what was happening.

At last the pressure eased and he was dragged to his feet by the broad-armed Orc who gripped him by the hood of his cloak and held him upright. His head swam and he felt he would be sick.

He caught Legolas' eyes first and the anger in them mirrored his own. The Elf was sagging slightly in the Orcs' hold, his face very pale.

Pippin shifted his gaze and saw with a sudden horror that the wizard was holding Faramir close to the brazier, gripping his hair as he thrust the man's face over the flames. Pippin could already see the ends of Faramir's long hair melting in the heat, as the man struggled for breath and tried to turn his head away from the heat and the fumes.

"Please," Pippin said, forcing the words through his aching throat, "please stop."

"I will tell you all I can," Legolas followed, reaching his bound hands forwards. "That is all I can do, you must believe..."

Pippin was sure this was the truth this time, the situation had rapidly tumbled out of their control.

"Tell me then," Saruman said, making no move. "Tell me... where is the One Ring?"

Legolas licked his lower lip as he tried to recount a swift and coherent account of the events at Parth Gallen, of Gollum's death, Aragorn, Gimli and Pippin's capture by the Orcs."

As far as Pippin knew, this much had been truth, but as Legolas spoke the next words Pippin nearly needed to hide his face to not show his disbelief.

Legolas told of a decision – the remaining Hobbits set out towards Gondor, holding to shadows in the footsteps of the Orcs until they were able to rejoin with Aragorn and Gimli. With both Isildur's heir and the Ring, Minas Tirith would become a stronghold for the enemies of Sauron.

"...And we three stayed behind," Legolas finished, his eyes showing nothing of the lie he had told, "to muster the forces of Rohan and lend extra strength to Gondor's victory." The Elf slumped now, as if he had told all.

Saruman finally stepped back, letting Faramir fall from his hold. The Orc holding Pippin also loosened his grip and he struggled free, running to the man's side.

"Too simple. You are far too easy to persuade. Every creature has its breaking point. The very first of my Orc creations discovered this very quickly."

Pippin could see that Legolas' entire figure was straining with anger. "You sicken me, Saruman. Much of this was known to you already..."

"Violence serves its purpose. You will be less likely to defy me in the future."

Pippin turned his head to see Legolas spit at the wizard's feet, and instantly wished he hadn't. The Elf was immediately beaten to the ground under the fists of an Orc.

"Get them up," Saruman met Pippin's furious gaze with a steady smile as his friends and he were dragged to their feet.

Faramir was already sagging in the uruks' hold, his hair shading his face from view, and Legolas was pale, his eyes darker than usual, bruises already appearing on his pale skin.

"I wanted to hear the story from your own lips - defying me is foolish, and learning so now may preserve your lives that little longer."

There was silence for a moment before Faramir lifted his head and spoke. "I once defended your name." As he addressed Saruman his voice was not without strength, but it seemed to gain conviction as he continued. "I justified your noble past as falling under the weight of a trial too great. But you have lost all nobility you might once have possessed, nothing remains save a twisted desire to befoul anything you cannot conquer. I would not defend your name now were it to save my own life."

Saruman did not seem angered by this, and Pippin saw instead a look of calculating interest. "Perhaps it is that you simply do not understand. Your weakness for others blinds you to what I aim to achieve."

"Nay." Legolas shook his head, breathing out softly. "There is nothing noble in your intentions Saruman, nothing that can justify what you have become."


	31. Captain of the White Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 44 - Captain of the White Tower**

Horses and hay. The smells sent his head reeling as Faramir started awake. Shafts of light speared through wooden beams above and hay scratched his bare shoulders as he endeavoured to sit upright. He felt flushed, burning with an unnatural heat. His mouth was dry, and it was painful to breath. Rolling to the side, he only held sickness at bay by the thought of who, or what, might be watching.

When the feeling subsided something cool was pressed to his mouth and he tasted water. Something soft brushed by his heated cheek and he forced his eyes open. They were stinging from the smoke and he could barely make out the figure of the lady Eowyn as she moved away from the place where he lay.

Squinting as he looked around, Faramir made out the now familiar figures of orcs at the door of the chamber, dark blots against a morning sun, and also a young man cowering by the open door. His blond hair was tousled, as though he had been dragged from sleep, and he stared at Eowyn with wide eyes as if somehow she was in command of the situation.

Faramir raised himself carefully on the bed, bending his face into his hands in an attempt to still the pounding in his head. He shivered, realising his underclothes were all that had not been taken from him as the orcs made their search.

His hands were shaking, yet at the approach of the lady he made an effort to still them.

"You are awake," she said, looking him over with a concerned gaze, "I will fetch water so that your wounds may be tended."

She moved away towards the door, and Faramir looked up to see the young man grasp at the lady's sleeve like a child afraid to be alone.

She removed his hand, pressing it gently as she reassured him. "Do your duty, Gyddon, and no harm will come to you."

After a moment he nodded, lips firmly pressed together, and moved towards Faramir, never taking his eyes from the uruks guarding the doorway. Faramir could focus on more detail now, strong-jawed beasts with skin that clung thickly to their muscled limbs. Saruman must have discovered a way to breed them stronger and taller than any he had encountered in Gondor.

The young man of Rohan seemed frozen with fear at the very sight, and had not made any move since Eowyn had left them.

"Are you a healer?" Faramir asked, his voice emerging weakly from his aching throat. The young man twisted his hands together, "I am not fully trained," he gulped, "I was an apprentice.. but then my master..." He glanced fearfully at the orcs.

Reminded of his task, Gyddyn moved over to the bed. "I need to see your wounds, my lord, and..." He glanced at the cord binding Faramir's wrists, then up at the orcs.

The uruk grunted at the boy who seemed frozen with fear.

"I... the wounds..," the young man stammered, evidently frightened at being the focus of the orc's full attention.

The uruk seemed to gauge what the boy meant and with a large rusty knife the orc severed the cord. Now that Faramir's arms were free, Gyddyn was able to aid him in the painful process of removing his undershirt, lifting it carefully over his stiff shoulder.

Eowyn's welcome step echoed on the floor as she returned with water and an armful of other supplies. Her face was cold and removed as she entered, quick eyes taking in the situation. "These may help." She handed the supplies to Gyddon who was now seeing to Faramir's shoulder. "And I also recovered these."

He saw that she had brought his clothes, neatly folded, and took the bundle gratefully.

She turned around, and he had opened his mouth to ask her not to leave when he saw that Eowyn was simply retrieving his boots and belt to go with his other belongings.

"Where are my companions?" he asked quietly.

"Your Elf friend is being tended to elsewhere. The orcs seem to loath his kind, I have rarely seen such hatred between two peoples. But he was wilful and they enjoyed their chance to break his pride."

Faramir flinched visibly, and not from Gyddon's tremulous hands.

"Pippin is with the King's guard," Eowyn continued, her voice softening and becoming a kind of balm in itself. "Grima will bring him out as an example of a traitor and spy. The wizard has announced you all are to be taken as captives with his army when they depart," she said, carefully watching for his reaction, "lest you poison the city with false words.

Faramir felt a great weight settle over his heart. He would return to his city at last, only to be slaughtered in sight of the gates when Saruman saw he no longer had need for them. "Does he believe we will come willingly?"

"You have little choice." Her tone was less harsh than her words, and in her face he saw great turmoil and indecision. "I would that I could ride with you into battle."

"Would you not fear to leave your uncle?"

"Eomer will return." She turned her head as though to listen for the fall of hooves in the quiet of the morning. "The men believe he has left Rohan and gone into hiding, but he is my brother, and his heart will always be here in Edoras."

He watched her, and wondered. "And your heart?"

Her expression drew inwards, and he did not need words to understand. Edoras may have been everything to her once, a happy home filled with childhood memories. But she was hunted now, and the open plains and windswept heights of Medusled no longer held any comfort.

After watching him for a moment she focused again on her work, cleaning the skin around his burnt forearms with gentle persistence. "Do you think you will be able to ride?"

"Horses and I have had a troubled history." Faramir grimaced at a myriad of embarrassing childhood recollections. He could ride as well as any now, but it had taken many falls and a great amount of persistence to truly understand and master the unruly beasts. "My brother told me frequently that when riding, the horse was often more in control that I was." He winced as his shoulder was probed painfully, and was glad she would think it was the memory rather than pain that caused him agitation.

"And when I was a girl my brother told me," she replied, amused, "that girls did not ride horses - and that was similarly untrue." She smiled, and added, "Eomer discovered it also, for even now I can best him in a race."

Faramir pictured the mighty, broad-shouldered warrior losing to his tall yet slender young sister and smiled. "I do not doubt it."

"I have cleaned and bandaged it, my lady," Gyddon said at last. "There is little else I can do."

"Thank you, Gyddon. You should go back to your rooms now."

There was a short silence as the young man made his way timorously passed the uruks, and then Eowyn said, "Fear is a strange thing, is it not?"

Faramir resisted the urge to pull away as she reached out and brushed her fingers over the place where Saruman had burnt along his arms. Her touch was cool however, and he welcomed it.

"Gondor and Rohan will now forever be joined."

He followed her gaze and, now that his forearms had been cleaned of ash and blood, could make out the rough silhouette of a slender horse that had been branded there.

Faramir met her eyes for a brief moment and thought that despite the fear and pain, there was something to be treasured in this meeting.

"Did something befall you when you were young," she asked after a pause, "for you to fear fire?"

"Not that I can recall," he murmured, the associations brought to his mind unpleasant, "it is a thing of dreams, always flickering at the edge of thought."

"I do not fear fire," she replied, "and yet warmth and I have been strangers for many years."

Faramir shivered, yet knew it was not of physical warmth she spoke.

There was much he would have given to remain a moment more in the peaceful stable, and the lady seemed to feel the same, asking quickly, "Faramir... before I go," she seemed to hesitate, "The lord Aragorn, he is..."

"He is the true heir of Isildur," Faramir finished, reading her questioning eyes and seeing the confirmation of her hope. "And I can only give thanks that he escaped this place before the coming of Saruman."

"Your company have brought hope to us in the darkest of times," she said, the faintest of smiles touching her pale lips.

Faramir saw something in her face that surprised him, though he should not have wondered that any mortal, man or woman, would give their heart wholly to Aragorn. He was surprised, however, that his king had taken this woman's heart so completely in so short a space of time.

"Perhaps the King realised his importance also," she went on, oblivious that she wore her feelings so openly for him to see, "for Grima ordered death to my brother and your companions, and at the last my uncle came to himself for a time and reduced the sentence to banishment."

"Then there yet is hope," he said quietly, feeling her eyes still upon him.

* * *

"I can hear voices." Frodo's eyes were wide as he spoke, and Merry listed carefully to catch what his cousin had heard. The heavy thud of raindrops meant it was difficult to make out. They streamed from the hood of his cloak and dripped along loose strands of hair into his eyes. He felt Radagast and Sam moving close in behind him, blocking the worst chill of the wind and listening also.

There was indeed voices coming closer, and Merry heard frustration in their tones.

"We have come too far north!"

To Merry's relief the voice was that of a man, and as he let out the breath he had been holding as two figures came into sight.

"Henneth Annun lies little more than two miles back, Captain. It is not too late to seek shelter there till the storm passes."

The one speaking was tall and dark-haired. In one hand he carried a broad-bladed sword, well-polished, with which he hacked at random at the tangled undergrowth, and in the other a silver helmet. The man's face was flushed, for the land was steep and the going tough for one with such heavy armour. His clothes were different to any Merry had encountered, for unlike Aragorn and Faramir's green and grey cloth, this man was weighed down by a breastplate of the same metal as his helmet, his upper arms encased by stuff that resembled Frodo's mithril coat, although more coarse and dull in colour.

His companion was taller still, his armour more fine and less worn, with touches of dark red that seemed to indicate a higher rank. He too wore no helmet, and his his hair was dark, like his companion. "Afraid of getting wet, Lieutenant?" this second man asked, his stern expression and strong jaw relaxing slightly in amusement.

Merry started, the twist of the man's mouth as he smiled bringing the most vivid flash of recognition.

"We should find shelter lest the horn of Gondor rust in this weather," the Lieutenant returned, also smiling, while Merry noted the fine white horn that hung at his companion's side. "It will be fully light soon and bands of Haradrim frequent this part of the forest, I would not be the one to face the Steward if you did not return."

More men followed, twelve or so, each with swords drawn and weary expressions.

Merry reached beside him and gripped Frodo's arm, gesturing to the second man and receiving a questioning gaze in return.

"Tell the men to turn back the way we came. Mayhap the rangers will return to Henneth Annun ere the first stroke of the battle falls and we are recalled to Osgiliath."

The deep voice was unfamiliar to Merry, yet some of the mannerisms could not be only chance.

"Their camp could not have been far from here," the Captain continued, frustration showing in his dejected movements. "It is a pity... I gave my word..."

"I understand you would not break your word to your brother but we have done all we could, more perhaps."

"Aye, we have tarried here longer than duty allowed. It was folly to think it would be an easy undertaking." The man who held Merry's rapt attention seemed resigned as he spoke. "More than likely we've walked right through the camp and even now they're laughing at our mistake."

"Worry not about the rangers, Sir, as they are likely safer than ourselves."

Just as the men were turning, Merry shifted his foot ever so slightly on the dry leaves in order to gain a clearer view of this man he now knew to be a friend.

The men froze, turning together to stare directly at the bush behind which Merry was hiding. Merry felt Frodo and Radagast draw back into the underbush, and Sam's hand upon his cloak urging him to move away, but he held his ground stubbornly.

"What is this?" The men peered over the leaves, relaxing their sudden alertness when they recognised Merry's small form.

"A child?"

Merry was pulled from his hiding place by strong arms, and found himself staring up at the Captain.

"Not a child," the man said, studying the Hobbit with a gaze less piercing, yet just as stern as that of his brother. "Search the trees, Lieutenant, there may be more of them."

As if in answer to Merry's wildly beating heart, the world around him seemed suddenly to explode with cries and the sky became black before his eyes. The grip on his arms slackened, and he pulled away backwards, stumbling to the ground.

It was only when he heard the agonised cry of one of the men beside him that he realised that the sky was full of spears and arrows, a thick volley of them having been fired in their direction.

He pressed himself closer to the wet earth, his hands above his head, expecting any moment for the thick black missiles to strike his body. He cried out wordlessly as blood splattered across his outstretched arms.

When the sky cleared a hand was tugging his arm, a voice was full in his ears telling him to come away. He resisted the hold, rising to his full height and looking around.

He himself was unhurt. The Lieutenant who had pulled him from the bushes, however, was dead. Merry could see this by the position of the man's body sprawled on the grass, an arrow through his throat. There were dark shafts piecing the wet earth around the two men, and Merry was amazed the Hobbits had been so lucky.

The Captain had crawled over to the body of his friend, dragging his sword, and Merry saw with horror that there was a black spear protruding from his side. The blood spilling from the wound turned the Hobbit's stomach.

The insistent pull upon his arm came again and this time Radagast's voice. "Come Merry, we must leave now or risk everything."

The Hobbit tore his eyes away from the crimson scene of horror, and felt tears fill his eyes almost at once. He did not trust himself to speak. "Don't you see?" he said, begging them to understand.

"There's nothing you can do, Mr Merry. We can't stay here."

"Look!" He raised his other arm, and felt his voice rising in desperation, "Don't you understand? It's Faramir's brother back there - Boromir - we cannot just leave!"

With relief Merry saw Frodo's eyes widen in surprise and Sam's mouth open. He pulled his wrist from Radagast's grip, the blood on his hands easing his escape, and moved backwards towards the clearing.

Before he took another step he felt his heart fall with Frodo's words. "Merry, you can't be sure. We cannot stay here. If those men were to get hold of the ring..."

"Go then," he heard himself say. "Go, but I must stay."

"Do not do this," Radagast was saying, "there is nothing you can do for them now."

"I can find help," Merry said, breathing hard and backing away. "The rangers are near, I will find them!" He realised as he said it that he already felt deeply for the man with the strong voice and laughing smile, not only from what Faramir had told him but from the way he was now bent over his friend, touching his face with gentle but bloodied hands. He knew that he could not now turn away as this man knelt, bleeding onto the wet leaves.

Merry felt his companions tear themselves away from him, and stumbled over to the man even as he collapsed sideways with a groan. Merry did not know what to do. The faces of the other men swam before his eyes, pale and desperate in death, their armour shining with fresh blood. He knew he was too late, he must be.

He grappled at Boromir's side, drawing the great white horn from its resting place as he met the eyes of its bearer. He lifted it to his lips but no sound came. His breath was too short, too weak. He felt a bloody hand upon his arm and saw eyes, familiar eyes, pleading with him to have the strength for this task.

He blew again until a note, faint but clear, emerged. It became louder and more forceful as he forced all the air his small lungs could hold into the horn.

Then he slumped and lowered the horn into the hand of its bearer, holding it there as a comfort.

"Thank you, little one," the Captain said through laboured breaths, then gripped the instrument tightly with bloodless fingers.

Merry scrabbled with the edge of his cloak, tearing off a portion with the sharp of his knife blade and scrunching the cloth in his fist. Then he tried to find the entry point of the spear so that he might staunch the flowing blood. But it was hopeless. He could not do anything to loosen Boromir's breastplate, and any motion caused his chest to heave and gasp for breath. Pushing the cloth around the outside of the shaft was equally futile, for it was soaked within seconds and did nothing to stem the flow. He choked on his tears, then, realising his helplessness. But the feeling did not last long, and was soon replaced by fear.

Strangely clad warriors were emerging from the trees before him, their scarlet tunics and black-braided hair merging strangely with the bloody scene in Merry's eyes.

The Hobbit watched with bleary vision and heart pounding as they paced the clearing, dragging those still alive into a heap around which several younger warriors now stood guard. Merry was soaked to the elbows in blood and mud and thought perhaps if he lay very still the dark-eyed men might overlook him.

But it was too much to hope. Footsteps stopped right before him.

"What is this, Dharak. A cave-rat?"

More footsteps approached, and Merry cried out as he was wrenched up off his feet by the hood of his cloak. He squinted into a scarred but handsome face as dark eyes examined him in return.

"And this..."

Merry felt himself dropped and fell several inches before landing heavily, his ankle twisting under him. He was now level with the man's boots, and a great curving scimitar that hung at his belt.

The younger warrior was smearing dark blood from Boromir's breastplate to reveal the fineness of the amour beneath and a sprawling silver tree motif. He then bent and pried the white horn from Boromir's weakened fingers, presenting it to his leader on bended knee.

The leader, Dharak, took it and turned it over in his hands.

Before Merry knew what was happening, Boromir had rolled and wrenched the kneeling warrior's braid back, lifting a knife to the bared neck. "You killed my men," Boromir breathed up at Dharak, every word an effort.

The man in Boromir's grasp shifted, the golden band around his neck contracting as he swallowed. Dharak did not react, watching the knife and still fingering the horn.

Along with the rain, sweat poured from Boromir's face and Merry moved to aid him in the escape bid, only to find Dharak's boot firmly lodged across his forearm. He squirmed but could not break free.

"Kill him then," Dharak said and looked back calmly to the horn.

Merry saw uncertainty in Boromir's eyes as the hand holding the knife shook.

There was a murmur from behind Dharak, where several of the younger men looked wary, and even, Merry thought, frightened.

"The life of a dishonoured man in exchange for a Captain of Gondor," Dharak continued, his accented voice cold, "A fair trade."

"You will not take us." Boromir spoke through gritted teeth, and his eyes strayed to those of his men who had survived the attack, now restrained by many spears.

"You would have fetched a high price in Haradwaith," Captain of the White Tower. Dharak dipped his head in recognition, a smile on his thin lips now that he had confirmed the identity of Gondor's first son. "There are many in my land who would pay well to exact a revenge long sought."

Dharak lifted the scimitar from his belt, and Merry flinched back as far as he was able with his arm still trapped. "But beyond the knowledge you will soon reveal, you are worth nothing." The man of Harad held the blade crosswise and Merry saw a greenish glint running along the edge. "Our weapons are laced with poison. You are already dead." From his other hand Dharak let the horn of Gondor fall so that it landed softly in the mud.

Merry felt shock overcome him. He had thought he had come in time, but poison had been eating away at these men ever since the first missiles fell from the sky.

Boromir expelled a hoarse breath of shock, lifting a shaking hand to press softly against the spear wound in his side. How long?

"Harad poisons are not merciful." Dharak watched the man carefully, a twist to his this mouth. "Time is sometimes needed to extract all the information we require."

Boromir's eyes were now lowered as though in defeat, resting on the horn in the mud by Merry's knee.

Merry saw his slack jaw suddenly clench before Boromir sliced the knife along the side of the younger man's throat, pushing him away.

The man choked and clutched his neck, and Boromir swiftly plunged the knife into Dharak's foot.

With a great cry the man fell back and Merry felt his arm freed. He immediately grabbed for the horn, knowing the only thing that could save the men now was if help came in time.

"Run little one!" Boromir pushed at him to move and Merry did so, darting just fast enough to avoid the hands clutching for his cloak.

He heard Boromir's pained grunt as Dharak rounded upon the man in fury, but then Merry was running, streaming through the trees in a desperate race. He lifted the horn to his mouth as he ran, putting all his breath into making it sing through the forest.

It was not long before he hit dirt, his belt catching on a tree as he passed and throwing him to the ground. When he righted himself he was staring at a large pair of muddy brown boots. Unable to comprehend for fully five seconds he suddenly flung himself backwards, scrambling away from the man towering above him.

He looked up and hardly seeing the sword raised to his eye level, he recognised clothes and bearing so very similar that of Faramir that he almost cried in relief. He had drawn the Ithilien rangers to him, perhaps not too late.

"I did not think a rabbit could make such a commotion," the man said, studying him with dark eyes and an expressionless face.

"Please," Merry cried to the stern looking man, "please help."


	32. Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 45 – Games**

Legolas was shivering when he awoke, his body pressed against the sodden earth. He did not remember feeling cold since the endless dark of Moria, and even then he could not recall such a chill as this. It seemed to be soaking into his flesh not only from the cold mud beneath his body but from the knowledge that Saruman had outmanoeuvred them. They had evaded him long, through the mines and then with the aid of the Elves in Lorien, yet their luck had now ended.

A light rain was falling, and the sky was dull and darkening above. A sea of black Orcs stretched into the small valley to their left, their odour rank and their voices drifting up to Legolas' ears as they crowded together to receive orders.

To their right a field of tents was pitched a hundred paces away, as though keeping their distance from the Orc and wolf masses. Legolas could see green Rohirric banners raised above them, and figures of men moving warily about the newly constructed camp.

The space around the three companions was unoccupied apart for one small tent and one large, Saruman's Legolas presumed. Fallen trees and tree stumps must have provided a small area of conference for the wizard, for boot prints from the largest Orcs had trampled the earth around them into flowing mud.

Legolas finally moved his body, biting hard on his lip as wounds from that morning awoke and made themselves heard. Every inch of his body felt bruised, and he shuddered with remembrance of the pain the Uruks had inflicted as they had searched them. Levering his restrained arms beneath him, he finally recognised Pippin and Faramir lying unconscious beside him. Violent dark bruises had formed on the Hobbit's neck where the Istar's fingers had choked him, and Legolas could see others beginning to form on his pale face where the Orcs had been less than gentle.

They were all three of them streaked with mud and soaked to the skin. Legolas worried that Pippin, who felt the cold so much more than he himself, would freeze if he did not soon find warmth. He edged himself closer to the Hobbit, pressing his body against him just enough to warm but not waken.

It was a moment before he took his eyes from Pippin's childlike features, for they reminded him of brighter times, and when he did so he found Faramir's half-open eyes upon him, watching his movements.

He heard the young man sigh quietly as he eyed their surroundings with a weary gaze. "Breakfast with Saruman after all." Faramir gave him a weak smile. "Pippin will not be pleased."

Legolas did not even bother restraining his short laugh at the absurdity of the comment, though it turned quickly into a hoarse cough as he felt bruised muscles tense excruciatingly.

It eased after a moment, and he shook his head as far as he was able. "I have noticed," he said, his dry throat making speaking painful, "your tenancy towards flippancy in times of peril."

He thought he caught a ghost of a smile on the other's face at the suggestion. "It is far better than indulging fear," Faramir replied after a moment of thought, "and generally more entertaining."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "I would drink to that, as Gimli would say. There's certainly little enough humour to be found in this situation."

Seeing Faramir's gentle smile of amusement all of a sudden forced into his mind the image of his friend's features contorted by fear and pain as Saruman held him over the brazier in Meduseld. He shuddered at the recollection.

"Legolas, are you in pain?"

He licked his lips and met Faramir's concerned gaze, wondering what words could express his remorse. "It is I who should ask this of you," he said after a moment. "I would have saved you pain of Saruman's touch..."

The man looked relieved at knowing Legolas' concern. "Our plan went as intended. It was a show of power to frighten us into submission, but we have gained our small victory."

Hearing what he knew to be true did not make it any easier to bear. "I would that our places had been exchanged, that you would not have had to face that fear."

Faramir seemed touched by the sentiment, however futile. "I should have guarded my thoughts more carefully, leaving parts of my mind... unprotected."

"I thought I could take any pain to support our truth, and yet when the blade was turned upon another and I was asked to choose..."

"That is the power of the shadow for without loyalties there is no limit to our actions." Faramir sighed and rested his head back upon the muddy ground, looking up at the first stars in the night sky. "And yet we may yet hold the advantage; Saruman knows no ties of allegiance and even as he follows the Dark Lord's commands he seeks to use Sauron as his weapon and supplant him..."

"As Sauron no doubt thinks to use Saruman," Legolas finished.

Pippin was stirring, and Legolas looked down at him, sad that the little Hobbit should be caught up in this.

"They are coming for us." Faramir nodded over Legolas' shoulder to where the Elf could pick out the voices of Orcs growing louder. "There is one thing that gladdens my heart," the man said solemnly.

"What might that be?"

"At least now you are as muddy as I." The man's face broke out into another small smile.

Legolas sighed in amazement, straining at the cords that bound his arms as he felt his strength returning. "Please," he begged, "Do not make me laugh, it hurts too much."

* * *

Frodo could feel the wizard's hawk-like eyes upon him in the dark, yet somehow it was comforting. They had been sitting side-by-side for sometime, as the others slept quietly. Their clothes were beginning to dry now, and the mud from the marshes no longer swamped the ground upon which they slept.

"I had never thought to ask Gandalf," he said softly, "why wizards involve themselves in the troubles of the world."

He thought he had not been heard, and yet after a long pause Radagast spoke. "We were sent here, long ago."

Frodo could not see his face in the darkness, just the outline of his sharp features against the sky, but there was a wistful tone to the words.

"But now our time has come, and we too are uprooted from out homes and comforts - to fight for the land, even against one of our own."

Mist moved around them, swept up by the cold wind. The wizard's hair seemed to stir also, caught by the breeze.

Frodo thrust his hands further into the warmth of his cloak, speaking softly so that the words were nearly taken by the wind. "Saruman."

"He was great once, strong and possessing knowledge higher that all the rest. Saruman the Wise, we named him, not knowing then that the knowledge gained was not wisdom but something far more dangerous. A leader should never treat with contempt those less mighty than himself. Saruman lost sight of this and began to truly believe that others were not fit to govern their own fates."

Frodo nodded, "I understand, and begin to see that perhaps it is right that the smallest most insignificant people of all should take up this quest."

"But you wish it had not fallen to you?"

He looked out into the dark night, stretching with his mind for Bag End and his fireside. "Do you think me selfish?"

Radagast replied quickly and with feeling, "Nay, none who have witnessed your struggle or seen the strength of your heart could do so."

"You begin to sound like Gandalf."

"I sincerely hope not. If I become half so fond of cryptic riddles you must promise to put me out of my misery."

A companionable silence followed. "At any rate," Frodo said at last, "you have not yet begun to smoke."

Something resembling a snort followed. "Eccentric habit."

Frodo decided to voice something that had been weighing on his mind for some time. "Before I left Rivendell the Lord Elrond showed me several maps of Gondor and the ways east into Mordor, but that was long ago, and I remember little. Perhaps I never thought to make it this far. Besides, we had Aragorn with us then, a company of nine full of hope and of people greater than I. In the end I did not expect the burden to fall to me."

"I am no traveller, as you know already, but nevertheless I am more familiar with charts than you might think. I have an idea, if you will hear it, of a way to pass through the black mountains undetected..."

* * *

"How could I have fallen asleep?" Merry jerked up into a sitting position as he heard a step close to his ear. It had been a terrible rest, full of dark eyes and golden scimitars.

The rangers of Ithilien had returned late in the morning bearing stretchers. Merry had heard them talking, their conversation able to be overheard from where he slept in the corner of the small cave. There was a sandy floor beneath his feet, curved walls and a rocky roof overhead. If not for the fact that the ceiling was the hight of a man rather than a Hobbit, and that the entire cave was perched above a waterfall, he might have considered Henneth Annun as Hobbit-like a dwelling as he had seen for many months.

Merry absently pulled at the bandage on his wrist. The joint was stiff and sore, having been crushed under the Harad Captain's boot for so long. It was a small hurt in the expanse of wounded and dead brought into the cave after Merry had alerted the rangers to their plight. Few had survived it seemed, the dark arrows and spears picking out their victims where the soldiers had been at their most vulnerable.

They told Merry he had saved the lives of the wounded. A degree of freedom had been granted to him for this service, though he was not to stray from the cave. The rangers' stern eyes warned him that questions would be asked once all the wounded had been seen to.

He sat, then, by the side of the man he had given everything to save, reprising the decision in his head over and over until he thought he would go mad. He stared at the man on the litter beside him, trying to find comfort in what seemed to him as the only familiar or friendly features in the cave.

The lord Boromir was, however, unaware of the Hobbit's hopes. Merry watched as the strong body fought off the poison, lying deathly still for long intervals in which Merry barely dared to breath. If this man dies, he could not help thinking, it will all have been for nothing.

He massaged his wrist once more, wincing at the movement.

"You are hurt."

Merry started at the voice, it was strained, but touched with a caring and sincere undertone that caused Merry's heart to jump slightly as he looked down to find the grey eyes of the lord Boromir fixed upon him.

"I know your face." The man's eyes shifted across the Hobbit's features as though unable to bring them together. "In a dream... a halfling."

"Not a dream, my lord." Merry reached forward and grasped the man's limp hand eagerly, so overwhelmed with relief that he could barely speak.

"The sky grew dark..."

"Try not to speak," Merry hushed, seeing that the man had lost sense and how it was taxing him.

"His errand and no other's. Chasing shadows, I said, yet he has not returned..." The man's breast heaved and he looked away from Merry for a moment before calming and looking once more as if to refresh his memory. There was blood on his lips and Merry began to grow concerned.

The Hobbit half rose to his feet, looking for assistance from the healers when he felt the slack grip of a hand at his sleeve. Boromir was still looking at him with half closed eyes, as though holding onto the tail of a dream.

"Of whom do you speak, my lord?" Merry asked as a way of calming the man while he silently urged the healers to come quickly.

Boromir did not reply. His eyes were closed now, and there was something of a smile on his lips.

The healer arrived, giving the Hobbit a suspicious glance as he felt his patient's wrist. "What has happened?"

"He awoke," Merry told him, "and spoke. He made little sense. He said I reminded him of a dream, and that he had lost someone... Perhaps the man who died beside him in the forest?"

"Nay," the healer shook his head, placing his hand gently on his lord's heated face. "Our Captain-general has lost many men fighting on the front line, but no grief can fell so heavily as that of a family, I can understand that. I lost a cousin at the river under the lord Boromir's command - nor can I blame him - a better leader you cannot find - but it hits hard."

* * *

When Boromir woke later in the afternoon, Merry was still sitting beside him. He regarded the Hobbit carefully, as though his mind was trying to make sense of what his eyes told.

Merry thought he seemed weaker than before. "I thought I had dreamed."

Merry touched his hand to reassure him that he was real. "Fear not, my lord. I am no apparition."

"I can see that you are flesh and blood - more so, perhaps, than I."

Something hard rose in Merry's throat and it was difficult to speak. "Do not say so. You are wounded, but you will heal."

The man smiled, as though touched. "You were very brave, little one, under the spears of the Haradrim, and yet I do not know your name."

"My name is Merry, my lord, and little courage I can claim. I could only lie still and hope not to be seen."

Boromir swallowed before speaking again, "And run for aid under threat of arrow and spear. I call that bravery."

Merry heard the deep voice praise him and knew at once why the healer spoke with such regard for his Captain, why any man would do all in his power just to earn his favour.

"How many of my men survived?"

Merry looked down as he answered, trying not to picture the arrow that had sliced through the Lieutenant's throat before Merry's eyes. "Five, my Lord."

Boromir's voice was broken when he finally spoke. "A foolish errand. The Haradrim are savages." He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cot. "I will not ask you now why you were in Ithilien, for I see you would not tell me. But why risk your life for mine?"

"You remind me of someone, a friend," Merry said, and he could not disguise a glimmer in his eyes as he said it.

"I find it hard to believe any of your friends would be of my stature," was Boromir's gruff reply.

"Nevertheless it is so - and I believe he would have wanted me to look after you."

Familiar grey eyes narrowed on him with shrewd inquiry, despite his pain. "Of whom do you speak? Give me his name."

"He has grey eyes," Merry said, enjoying finally revealing some good news that he had longed to tell, "and hair just like yours, though perhaps longer."

"Speak! speak!" There was no anger in the man's voice, only eager anticipation.

"...and already I see your temper is greater than his, and you lack his skilful way with words!" Merry did not think the other would resent this jest.

"Is it possible? You have seen Faramir?"

"I have travelled many miles by his side!"

"Then tell me! Where is he now?"

Merry suddenly stammered, "I do not know... we parted some time since, above the falls, North."

The man sunk back against the sheets, the flush of hope fading from his cheeks as his strength rapidly failed him.

After a short paused filled with laboured breathing Boromir spoke once more. "And what errand sent you in to the Southlands? Was Faramir returning to Gondor?" "He said he would follow the decision of the company."

"That is very like him. But what was the errand and what was decided?"

Merry hesitated, wondering what he should say to the injured man, and suddenly frightened that he already knew something of their quest. "We were separated by Orcs and... I came south..."

"It is a long way from Ithilien to the falls of the Anduin, you must have had some companion?"

Merry hesitated, unnerved by the feverish glimmer the man's eye. "I..."

Suddenly Merry felt his wrist being grasped more tightly than was comfortable.

"You can tell me, Merry."

* * *

When Pippin woke the world was upside-down. Everything hurt, especially his head. He heard harsh laughter, and then he was being shaken until his teeth rattled in his head.

"Now, keep the little imp alive or you will answer for it." The wizard's measured voice was now familiar to him, and Pippin ground his teeth to hear it.

Each day since their departure with Saruman's army he had been tied to the saddle of a horse and jarred along until his bones ached. Each night the small circle of Urukai by Saruman's tent had treated him as their personal slave, making him fetch meat from the fire, mead from the giant barrels. They slapped him to the ground when he hesitated, large bruises forming wherever their great fists connected. These Orcs were larger and more intelligent than those that had dragged him from Amon Hen to Edoras, but no less vicious. Pippin did not know how much further it was to Minas Tirith, but he had had more than enough of Orcs to last several lifetimes.

He closed his eyes tightly as he was once again shaken viciously in the Orc's fist.

"Wake up little rat, it's time for our games."

Even as he was dropped to the ground he felt his heart drop also. Saruman was beside him now, the Istar's robes shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Pippin saw him turning towards his tent and dared to grasp a corner of the cloak.

"Please," he gasped, "not tonight."

Saruman looked down at him, and the wizard's stare made Pippin feel like a worm in the mud. He ducked his head and let go of the cloak, not daring to meet that stare any longer. The fear already mingled with shame at his own cowardice.

"Heed my limits, Gulruk." Saruman pointedly shifted his staff into the largest of the Uruk's sights. "I have other plans for these captives." The wizard turned and left the Uruks to their fun.

Pippin choked on his breath, his eyes averted from the bloody pole set in the centre of the Orc circle and the two figures being roped to it.

* * *

Merry hesitated. He was only too willing to discuss his own part in Boromir's rescue, but he shied away from revealing the fact that Frodo, Sam and Radagast were still close.

Boromir was looking at him with eyes that seemed alight in the torch-lit cave. "I owe you my life," he said. "I only wish to understand more more about you."

Merry was sure now that this man knew something of their quest, but clearly not the turn it had taken from Rivendell.

"Tell me Merry," he asked again, and all weariness seemed to have fallen from him, "were you planning to come to Minas Tirith? Was there something of importance to be taken to my city?"

"I do not know what you mean." Merry for the first time became of the great difference in size and strength between a Hobbit and a man, and was unsure of this man he had come to admire.

Boromir's fingers were suddenly resting at his throat, and Merry saw nothing recognisable in the fevered brow and frantic gaze.

"A dream," he mumbled slipping once again into some private turmoil, "Isildur's bane is found - but where is it Merry? where is it..?"

The grip at his throat became unbearably tight and Merry only barely managed to speak. "My lord, please! You are hurting me."

Merry choked, and Boromir's grip suddenly slacked, his large fist clenched rapidly in the air as he fell back against his support.

Several agonising seconds passed in which Merry could not dare to look lest the man still be possessed by the strange fever that had taken hold of him. He wondered if nearness to the Ring in the forest clearing could have had such an effect.

After some few minutes the healer returned, checking his patient and noting his agitation. Merry said nothing, gaining his breath by degrees until he was able to breath normally once more. After the healer moved away Boromir was quiet for a moment before Merry felt the touch of a hand upon his own. He flinched away before he could stop himself, but when he looked down he saw eyes half open and so full of feeling that the Hobbit could hardly bear to meet the gaze.

"Forgive me. I hurt you."

Merry realised at once that he had already forgiven. "It was nothing. Though you frightened me. Perhaps it is the fever..."

"Nay, a madness took me - but that is no excuse. I should never have asked you to betray your secret."

"I would tell you my lord," Merry shook his head, feeling tired and confused, "but it is not my secret to tell."

"Perhaps not. Even so nothing will avail us now... the darkness is spreading across the skies, and it will be at the gates of my city where the first blow shall fall."

"Lie back, they are going to take you to the city soon, you will need your rest."

"I hope," Boromir said quietly as he rested his head back on the pillow, "I hope that my brother is well, that we may meet once more before this fever takes me."

"I hope we will meet him again," Merry said under his breath, "and Pippin too."

* * *

"Don't like to watch our games, little rat?"

A large hand clamped over Pippin's jaw and brought him up to his knees, forcing his head up. Another hand grasped him about the throat until he opened his eyes. He had witnessed the Orc games nights before, and this time had hidden his face throughout, not desiring to witness it again.

Faramir's wrists were being untied from the top of the wooden pole that had held man and Elf upright as the Orcs tested their bets. As he was freed the young man fell heavily onto the blood splattered the ground beneath the pole. As before, Legolas had outlasted his companion and was still conscious, but Pippin saw the Elf was now supported mostly by the ropes that held him.

Pippin let out of soft breath as he saw that the Uruks had kept to the wizard's orders and had not done any permanent damage. Great red slashes marred his friends' torsos, but the creatures had shied away from causing any true harm. This worried Pippin in a way, what could Saruman be saving them for? Why keep them alive?

Out of the corners of his teary eyes Pippin could see Orcs exchanging weapons and large hunks of meat in acknowledgement of their winnings and losses. One Orc beat another to the ground instead of handing over his takings and Pippin squirmed out of the grip that held him, turning his eyes away and not wishing to witness any more of the infighting.

Legolas let out a soft moan as an Orc cut him down, and a whip caught the Elf across the ankles as he was slow to rise again.

"Take your man-friend before we decide we need more meat, Elf," one of the Orcs said, and laughter followed.

Pippin swelled in anger, but for once the Elf held his temper and bent to lift his companion with difficulty.

Faramir stirred but seemed calmed by the Elf's face bending over him. "Legolas?"

"Come, my friend." Legolas hefted the man's arm over his shoulder, "I have won again." There was a twist to the Elf's lips as he said it, and something was returned in the man's eyes.

Pippin waited for them in their place by Saruman's tent, where the Orcs tied them for the night. At least, Pippin thought, Saruman still considered the Hobbit unimportant and did not tie him. It was upon this small neglect that their hopes rested for escape, yet with the Orcs' brutal diversions he had had little opportunity to do more than clean and tend his friends' fresh wounds before the morning.

Sometimes Pippin caught sight of a rider of Rohan keeping well back but watching the Orcs at their entertainment. He never saw them for long, but imagined he saw sympathy in their watchfulness.

In a small dark place at the back of his mind Pippin wondered if his care was only prolonging the agony of their journey, but he saw gratitude in his companion's eyes as the raging fire of lash burns left them tormented and sleepless.


	33. A hidden truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 46 – A hidden truth**

The red light of sunset woke him, and Faramir lay still for several moments, gazing toward the East. His back and sides raged with fiery pain, and he wondered how he could have slept at all. It could not be long now before they reached Minas Tirith, two, maybe three days at most. His heart ached to see the white tower once more and for this torturous journey to come to an end one way or another.

All was strangely quiet. Legolas lay sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, beside him. Pippin was not in sight, but this did not worry Faramir greatly. After it was clear Pippin was not the bearer of the weapon of the enemy, Saruman had considered the Hobbit beneath his notice. Pippin was allowed some freedom, and some spent some of it in the Rohirrim camp, talking to the men held under the wizard's thrall and attempting to break through to them with words.

Pippin had seemed disquieted of late, and Faramir suspected something more than their dire situation was on his mind. The Hobbit's eyes strayed often to the Rohirrim tents, and some secret knowledge he had discovered there seemed always to be on tip of his tongue.

Saruman's tent at their backs was dark, perhaps the wizard too was making a visit to the men of Rohan, perhaps renewing the words of persuasion and valour he had bestowed upon them in rallying their forces in Edoras.

Just as Faramir propped himself onto his elbows to gaze down at the fire he could see in the riders' camp, a small hand suddenly covered his mouth. Pippin quickly came into view, the Hobbit's breath coming in great heaves. He held a small rusted knife which glinted scarlet in the setting sun, and as Pippin took away his silencing hand, Faramir grew more concerned at his wild eyes and a fresh double gash across the Hobbit's chin and chest.

'What has happened?" he breathed, as Pippin went to work on slicing through the bindings holding his wrists and then his ankles. As the Hobbit sawed away at the cord Faramir leant forward and turned Pippin's head a little so he could see the Hobbit's new wound. "Who has done this?"

"I promised not to tell," the Hobbit gasped. "But you must come and help... I tried to help but," he held a hand to his bleeding chest and took a great shuddering breath.

"I will come." Faramir pulled himself stiffly to his knees, feeling all his hurts complain once more as he did so. He went to shake Legolas but the Elf did not stir, and seeing the new blood drying at the side of the Elf's head he suspected him to be unconscious.

He pursed his lips, wondering whether there was anything he could do for Legolas now that his hands were free, but Pippin's forceful tug on his arm drew him away. He turned and followed the Hobbit, squinting into the red sun that lit their way. Ducking between the shadows of other tents, Pippin led him to a tent at the very edge of the Rohirrim camp.

At once he could hear stifled cries from inside, and a voice easily recognised.

"...watched for days. I would know your eyes amid a thousand men..."

The sound of fist striking flesh was unmistakable, and at the sound both he and Pippin began tearing at the tent opening.

"...waiting for some mistake, for you to be alone."

At last they tore the tent fabric back, casting dull light over the two struggling figures.

Grima had pinioned a woman to the ground, trapping her writhing body beneath his own. A short bladed sword remained in her outstretched arm but Grima was tearing at her wrist with bony fingers to try and loosen the grip on the weapon.

Catching sight of Pippin around the curtain of his greasy hair he merely snarled at the Hobbit, "Back for more, halfling? I thought I had given you enough to remember me."

As the man spoke, Faramir caught sight of the lady's face and drew a short breath. Golden hair spilled beneath her and there was blood on her lips and bruises on her neck where the Dunlending had held he down. He felt his heart twist. Above all else that she should be here! Eowyn.

Upon catching sight of Faramir her eyes widened and she increased her struggles, more hopeful now of escape. Grima turned back and bashed her across the face. Her head was flung back against the ground and she cried out, but kept her hold on her sword.

Faramir lost no more time in driving all his weight into Grima's side and throwing the man off her. Wormtougue let out a guttural moan as he rolled, taken by surprise. He had thought the Hobbit the only challenge to his conquest.

Despite his surprise, Grima righted himself quickly, the narrow fencing blade that had already wounded Pippin in his hand. "Step aside, son of Denethor." Grima's eyes were dark with desire as he looked to Eowyn who held a hand to her bleeding mouth. "Do not interfere in this. Go back to your Elf and lie quietly like obedient dogs until Saruman decides your fate."

The words rankled and Faramir could not help but recall their last skirmish when Grima had thwarted their appeal to Theoden. Flinching, he took a small step backwards to avoid Wormtongue's quivering blade. Grima was no warrior, but he himself had no weapon and his reflexes had been dulled by many days of captivity.

"Pippin!" Eowyn held her arm out and Faramir saw gratitude and affection in her bright eyes as the Hobbit helped her to her knees. He was relieved to see that apart from the bruises to her face, Eowyn seemed unharmed. She was still in riding clothes but her hair fell free about her shoulders, as though Grima had surprised her in removing the disguise she had been wearing.

"Stay on your knees where you belong, woman of Rohan." Grima moved another step closer. "There are many hours left in this night."

Grima's slack jaw and hot breath turned Faramir's stomach and he took his chance, lunging for Grima's sword arm, hoping to twist it back on itself. He succeeded, wrenching the blade out of the shocked man's fingers, but could not sustain the motion, his own shoulder giving way at the crucial moment. Grima regained a hold on the hilt, dragging it down so that must let go, then driving a sharp knee into Faramir's chest.

He doubled over, breath knocked out of him. Warm blood blossomed from healing wounds and he gasped for air, unable to rise.

"Leave him!" Eowyn's voice, panicked.

Grima stepped slowly passed him, closer to Eowyn and Pippin. He felt the blade trace along his back as he shuddered and struggled to breath. "You asked me once, son of Denethor, what price Saruman paid for my services." Faramir managed to lift his head slightly, nauseous not only from the blow to his chest.

"Perhaps now, my rightful prize, my white lady..." Grima levelled his narrow sword to Pippin's throat. "Perhaps now you will realise that all your resistance has only caused harm for those you love. Remember Theodred..."

Eowyn looked up at him, and there was such hatred in her gaze Faramir was surprised Grima did not back down. But beneath her hatred was fear also, and her eyes betrayed her as they flickered to Pippin.

Grima lowered his sword slightly, seeing defeat in her face, and grasped her chin, bringing her face to his.

Faramir flinched, the pale man's blade now rested against Eowyn's bared neck. He could not lie still and watch this.

Pippin scrambled up from ground, clutching up the candle from the side of the tent and throwing hot wax into Grima's bared arm.

With a last burst of strength Faramir lunged forward in time to grasp the man's sword arm and bring it back clear from Eowyn's throat. At the same time Grima gave a cry as Eowyn's blade plunged into his chest.

Pippin cried out with shock as blood sprayed from the wound.

Grima gave a gurgling cry and fell back, and Faramir gasped as the dead weight of the man fell full upon him.

Eowyn sank forward onto hands and knees, short sword now red with blood still in her hands. She shook and did not take her eyes from the body, as though he might rise again and pursue her.

Grima's death cry had shattered the quiet of the camp, and with the candle extinguished Faramir could see flickering torches approaching through the tent material, and could hear the baying of wolves

"They have heard us," Pippin whispered, and the Hobbit looked as though he could not endure much more of this night. "They are coming from all sides."

The new danger was clear. Pushing Grima's body from him and dragging himself over to Eowyn, Faramir gently pried the bloodied sword from her grasp. Her fingers were clenched so hard about the hilt that it was difficult to remove them. Holding both her hands in his he looked her in the face and she met his gaze steadily at last.

"Faramir," she said softly.

"He is dead," Faramir with the finality he felt she needed. "He will pursue you no more. There is nothing more to fear."

Pippin's huff of breath highlighted that there was much yet to fear.

Faramir recalled her strength in Edoras, and her care as she tended his own wounds, and did not relish the thought that their positions had been reversed this night.

"I followed the army", she said. "I hoped to find an opportunity to free you. And my people."

She had clearly seen enough not to be caught under the wizard's spell. Saruman's rousing words had not touched her heart as they had the rest of her people. "Do you know what will happen if they find you here?" his voice broke slightly as he asked it, but he pushed on, "You must regain your disguise."

She still hesitated in taking the helmet and cuirass he pushed into her hands. "They cannot kill me, the riders would rise up against him."

"Saruman's voice is poison, your people are not in their own minds."

"Please, Eowyn," Pippin begged, and for his sake, Faramir thought, the lady pulled the armour over her chest and hid her telling face and hair from sight.

Faramir looked about the tent and found her sword resting there. He pushed the hilt into Eowyn's slack hand, bidding her rise and take position by the door as though to hold them prisoner.

"I would stand beside you," she said softly through the helmet, and he wished he could see her face. "I would make the stand you have made and not hide in the shadows."

"Nay," he said, "There is nothing to be gained and all to be lost by showing your true face to the wizard."

"It could only make things worse," Pippin sighed, for looking down at the body of Grima.

* * *

Something prodded Legolas' shoulder and he woke with a start, eyes flying open to the sight of three men standing over him. It was dusk, and he felt dazed, his head aching from some blow he could not recall.

"Who are you?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

They were men of Rohan, their chain amour and deep green cloaks silhouetted against the sky. The one who had just prodded him with the base of a long spear stepped forward. Unlike his companions he wore no helmet, his dirty blond hair blew in the light breeze and stern eyes flickered between Legolas and Saruman's empty tent behind him.

"Where is the son of Denethor?" the rider asked, and Legolas suddenly realised he was alone. Dread flooded him. The ropes that had bound Faramir lay severed near by. Where could his companions be? Surely if they had been freed he would be free also.

"Where is he, Elf?" the man said, and prodded Legolas with his spear once more.

Anger flared within him. That these men could push him like he was a sack of grain...

Sweeping his bound legs into the man's feet, he brought him to the ground easily.

The surprise on the rider's face as he fell heavily was some satisfaction, but the snickering of his two companions more so as they helped their friend to his feet.

"I know not," Legolas said at last, feeling there was no harm is saying as much. "Do you come all this way to join the Uruk-hai's games?"

The men had the grace to look abashed. It was clear they had witnessed the Orcs' brutality.

"We came to find out the truth," one of the other riders said defensively. He sounded young, and was clearly afraid to show his face. "We have been speaking with the halfling."

Legolas knew Pippin had been at work in the riders' camp, attempting to spread the reality of Saruman's treachery.

"And what truth is that?" he murmured, still somewhat aggravated.

"We do not know," the younger man said, his voice confused. He shook his head as though to clear it. "But something feels amiss. There have been deaths... Grimbold.. and Gamling... those who questioned our riding forth... and it is hard to believe..."

The helmet-less man spoke once more, clarifying their thoughts. "The wizard has been a friend to Rohan, we do not deny it, but Gondor have long been our allies. We hoped the son of Denethor could tell us the true situation in Gondor. Could the Steward really have taken up with the enemy to save his own people?"

"Free me," Legolas said suddenly, hoping to spur them into action. "Untie me and I will find Faramir, you will have your answers."

They eyed him warily, almost as suspicious of the Elf as they were of Saruman himself.

Legolas sighed, appealing instead to their kindness. "There is no escape for me from this place; we are surrounded by orcs and wolves in their thousands. But if we are to live but a little longer I must find my my companions."

The youngest men hesitated another moment, but then lifted his visor and moved towards the Elf.

His hand was at his belt to retrieve his knife when Legolas sensed the movement close by. He cried out a warning but it was too late. Bound as he was, he could only watch as the thick black arrow slammed into the young man's chest, tearing through the thin chain mail.

He turned his face away as the other two men were slaughtered in the same fashion, blood spraying across him.

Uruks appeared, their crossbows slung over mountainous shoulders, and laughed to see that he had turned away from their carnage.

Then he heard a familiar voice. Pippin!

The Hobbit was being carried along by his wrists amid several great orcs that were moving toward him. Faramir was there also, held bodily so that he struggled to walk.

"Mellon nin!" Legolas cried as they approached, desperately wishing to know what was happening.

Faramir made eye contact and opened his mouth to speak, but was shoved onwards before anything could be revealed.

Legolas' sharp eyes caught another shape in the orcs' hold. A dark-haired man slung as though lifeless between them. There were not so many dark-haired riders amid the Rohirrim, and he wondered at the man's identity.

Pippin was suddenly dropped half on top of him, and Legolas wished briefly that Hobbits did not eat quite so much as his legs were crushed beneath the weight. The orcs left them there and marched on towards Saruman's tent. The Elf and Hobbit remained quiet until they knew they could not be heard, then Pippin told all.

* * *

Faramir shivered as the chill wind slithered in through the open folds of Saruman's tent and touched the damp skin of his face. The enclosure was some comfort against the wind but it had been constructed swiftly in a crude fashion, so that it might be dismantled when the army was ready to move on each day.

He remained on his knees for some time, keeping his eyes fixed on the door lest Saruman surprise him. His mind worked over all that had happened. How would the wizard react to the murder of his servant? How hard would it be to keep Eowyn's name hidden, to keep her face and voice from his thoughts?

But he realised this was an opportunity they had not yet gained; he had the chance to see what secrets Saruman concealed.

Dragging his eyes away from the doorway, he surveyed the objects upon the small table without much success. His hands were free yet they shook with exhaustion as he moved over and carefully pried open a large wooden chest to peered inside. A cloth wrapped bundle of weapons lay there. His own sword and bow of Lorien shining dully in the light of the single candle called to him hopelessly.

Another glance at the doorway showed only the silhouettes of the orc guards that had brought him there. Breathing shallowly, as though the wild beating of his heart would give him away, he stood and ran his eyes over the other objects lining the boundary of the enclosure.

The wizard's staff leaning against the canvas wall attracted his notice for a moment, but the other sides of the tent revealed nothing of interest. Then his eye fell upon a small chest, ornately carved. He moved towards it, barely breathing as his heart sounded loudly in his ears.

Closer scrutiny revealed dark fabric draped over a small spherical object. Hesitating, he sunk to one knee beside the chest. A low humming sound was emanating from beneath the thick material, and it was somehow familiar to him.

Himself as a young child climbing the steps to the tower and peering in at his father's door.

Denethor bent over, eyes closed and hands grasping a shiny black orb. The eeree light had frightened him, yet it had been difficult to draw away.

He had considered it a dream, but now he was not so sure. He had thought on it afterwards, and remembered too the kind Mithrandir's songs.

Seven starts and seven stones. And his many tales of Numenor...

He did not dare touch the thing, but his mind was stirred by possibilities.

Covering up the orb lest Saruman know he had glimpsed it, Faramir sifted through the items on the table. A few sheets of paper, marked with ink in swirling letters of a language he could not understand, and beneath these a small slab of stone set in a checked pattern for chess.

"Surely you knew you could be observed?"

Faramir stopped breathing, the sudden ache of fear making his chest contract. It was a moment before he could draw the courage to rise to his feet, turning to face the wizard.


	34. A trial too great

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 47 – A trial too great**

"Surely you knew you could be observed?" Saruman unclasped his hands as he entered and gestured Faramir to a seat. His voice was less imposing than previously, more sincere and even slightly amused.

Faramir lowered himself onto the spare seat painfully, keeping eye contact as he did so. "The mind tires easily," he said, silently processing what he had just discovered and trying to wipe any expression of it from his countenance. "It is always seeking stimulation; why else we still alive?"

The expression on the wizard's sharp-featured face was almost a smile, but his eyes remained as steel as studied his guest carefully. "You are correct. I lack intelligent conversation. Orcs have their uses, but they can provide little in the way of a challenge."

Faramir felt anger rise within him. "Your creatures have found sport with us. Are their games not challenge enough?"

Saruman ignored the question. "My Orcs tell me Gríma, son of Gálmód is slain." His ageless eyes showed no emotion or concern at the news, and to Faramir's surprise he brought forth game pieces, clearing the loose pages from the table with a sweep of his hand.

Faramir looked down at the board, tired of games and deception.

"He was," Saruman continued, "as Mithrandir named him, a witless worm, but he had his uses."

The wizard pushed the white pieces towards Faramir, taking black for himself and laying his board with an experienced hand. His fingers were white, almost matching the pallor of his robes, the nails long, and suddenly Faramir recalled the pain as they had bitten into the skin of his arms.

"You were taught to play?"

The swift change of topic made him pause. "Long ago."

Denethor had taught both his sons when they were quite young, representing the board as the scene of a battle. Faramir had taken to the game far more than his brother, but played rarely now that other duties had taken his time.

He forced himself to ask a question before the other grew impatient. "Why choose black?"

"I allow my enemies to make the first move."

Faramir nodded, expecting the answer. "The illusion of hope. A sound strategy, however unkind..."

Saruman smiled appreciatively. "I assume," he said in a different voice, "you will not willingly reveal who slew my servant?"

Faramir was quiet a moment, disconcerted by the wizard's mutable words.

"It was I." He attempted to meet the wizard's eyes with conviction as he claimed the deed, but instantly an acute burning flared behind his eyes and he dropped his gaze. He wondered at Legolas succeeding so convincingly to lie to the Istar's face.

Saruman sat back, regarding him. He became suddenly more aware of his own limbs. Worn boots and cloak torn and streaked with mud, the steady burn of wounds recently inflicted, even the strands of hair that had come loose and strayed now before his eyes, no shield from the Wizard's gaze.

"Your father taught you to play, did he not?"

At the words Faramir could not fail to think of Denethor. He did not often dwell on his father, yet in the wizard's presence his least pleasant memories seemed to be sifting to the top of his thoughts. "He did," he said, keeping his eyes on the game, not wishing to meet the hooded eyes.

The wizard continued as though unaware of Faramir's discomfort. "And you still look for his good opinion in all that you undertake, hoping one day to meet his expectations, hoping one day to match your brother in some small achievement."

Finally seeing an opening, Faramir took his bishop to the other side of the board with a sweep, removing Saruman's knight and setting it to the side of the board with a steadier hand.

He could feel the wizard's eyes on him, waiting for some reaction to the goading words. The emotions expressed were far less complex than his current state of his mind. They were, he suspected, those of long ago when he had visited Orthanc as a boy with his father and councillors of Minas Tirith. The wizard had seemed kind and wise then.

"You are wrong," he said slowly. "The sentiments you read are those of a child who stood on the steps of a great wizard and marvelled at his lofty dreams."

To his surprise the wizard laughed, and the sound was would almost have been pleasant if it were not for the sensation it brought with it: that of the earth falling away before his feet.

"I begin to understand what Mithrandir sees in you. You are quick witted, yet too high-minded and idealistic."

Faramir did not respond, it was a criticism often bandied about by his father.

"Perhaps I can teach you the dangers of idealism," the wizard said, and there was something in the words that made him wish to draw back from the table.

Making his point visually Saruman reached forward and swept Faramir's white castle from the board, replacing it with his own. "Idealism is to believe that all would sacrifice for you what you would for them." His tone changed. "Is it the Halfling you protect?"

Faramir had been waiting for the question and stayed quiet, thinking of Pippin.

"It was not the Elf," the Istar continued, "for he is still tethered. Who else would you stay silent to protect?"

"Teaching the dangers of trust and companionship through asking me to break faith is an unusual lesson."

"The lesson has not yet been given," Saruman said, without anger. "It is not only idealism in the worthiness of men I seek to dispel. What could not a great lord over men achieve in bringing learning and wisdom to a savage land? Petty skirmishes, war itself could be subsumed under a mantle of knowledge. But this may only be if I have the power to shape the world to my own ends. Would you not fight, one last time, for such a cause?"

Faramir felt the full power behind the wizard's voice; his breathing faltered and the rising elation threatened to consume rational thought. In his own struggle he understood the Riders of Rohan better.

He met the wizard's eyes at last, but had to wrench against the part of himself that yearned to fall in with the compelling tones. "I am fighting for just such a cause..."

"The one for which you fight is no scholar, no master of lore. He is a warrior, powerful in command and deed, but a warrior still."

Faramir struggled for words then, the force of the wizard's will driving all before it until he barely remembered his own name. "You paint images in which a man might willingly lose himself..."

He dropped his gaze to the board, and saw through blurred vision his knight and the white figure of his queen set beside it. His thoughts strayed briefly to another white lady and the haziness in his head lessened a little. "You describe only the highest branch of a tree," he said slowly, "you say nothing of what would become of those without the power or influence to better their situation. Show me the entire picture and then ask me again."

"The child I met long ago on the steps of Orthanc would have taken the hand I offer."

Saruman was regarding him with something akin to admiration, and this riled him more than all else.

"Perhaps, but I am a child no longer." He clenched his jaw against the trembling that threatened his resolution, and went on, "I would that Beren's hand had withered before he granted you the keys to Isengard. I see your dream for what it is: a veil to shelter your twisted desires and justify the darkness you willingly allowed to enter your mind."

The wizard stood and the table tipped before him, scattering the game pieces to the earth. His voice was no longer pleasant, but bitter and dangerous. "I have heard enough," he began, and it seemed to Faramir that his eyes showed an unearthly light. "Reveal to me the one with the blood of my servant on his hands."

When Faramir did not respond Orcs appeared at the tent entrance.

Prepare to move," the Istar said, "and take the man with you, I am tired of him. Let him walk behind the horses."

Faramir did not look at the wizard as the Orcs took him from the tent, closing his eyes briefly and already regretting his last words.

As they passed through the tent entrance the wizard called out one last order. "And let the halfling walk beside him, we will test the fabled strength of the little folk and see if an answer is forthcoming."

He shrank inside. It was not difficult to see that Pippin could never make the distance. The stamina of the horses and Orcs would far outreach that of a man, and a Hobbit even more so.

He wrapped his fingers around the small chess piece, the white queen, hidden in his fist.

* * *

They had come at night, grey horses through the silent trees of Ithilien. Merry had been borne off with them into the dark among the wounded, until the trees opened out onto the plains and the group of horses spread into a line, racing for the city. The dark shapes of mountains rose before them, a great row of giants marching west against the sky. The soldier to which he clung was unknown to Merry, and the wind against his face so chill that he did not ask whither they were bound. He knew only that he went where the lord Boromir went, now the only familiar face among these strange grave men.

* * *

It was later when Merry stared down upon the vast plains. He was alone, and had a painful awareness of being so. He dared not leave the chamber lest he become lost in the expanse of the city and never find his way back. Everything was tinged grey, a strange light spreading across the sky and shining through into the dark little room. It was not moonlight, nor indeed was it night! The darkness seemed to have spilled out of Mordor and be covering up the sun over the city.

He had searched for a candle but upon finding one could not find the means to light it.

He looked out upon the plains once more, seeing stirrings of black shapes before his eyes and feeling the prick of tears. The city was so large, and he so insignificant. What if he should be forgotten?

It was then he realised that the black shapes that had swum before his eyes were not the product of his own exhaustion, they were really there. There were small dots of red, also. Torches, he realised, hundreds and hundreds of torches flaring to life before his very eyes.

A cry went up from somewhere below, and it was taken up through the silent streets. There was a great rush of noise and Merry heard the banging of doors and the beating of drums. He stared, open mouthed as the torches revealed the expanse of the first wave of Mordor approaching!

He knew now what fear was. For all the time since their journey had begun long ago, he had walked blind! How could they have ever thought they could win against such numbers? He recognised his own fear, and knew at last that it was not for himself - but for Frodo, who walked into the very mouth of that darkness which now battered its breath against the gate of Minas Tirith.

He jumped up and ran to the door only to have it flung open in his face.

"Come!" A soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him from the room. "You are called for, and I have no time to waste as your nursemaid. The city is under siege."

However brash the words Merry could hear the fear in the soldier's voice as he rushed the Hobbit along the stretching corridors. A child screamed, woken by the noise. The grey passages were endless and the thunder of boots against the stone merged with the beating of drums until Merry thought he would go mad.

After traversing a courtyard high above the city and a long paved passage way leading into the heart of the citadel, they came to a great polished door. It was opened and he pushed through it before he could even ask who he was called to meet.

All was suddenly silence, the sounds of the ensuing battle below dulled by the ornate stone walls. He turned slowly, staring up at the curved ceiling, his mouth hanging open without realising it. It rose many lengths higher than of men, with deep windows set between dark marble pillars and the stone shapes of men. It was larger than any building he had ever entered in his life!

"Approach."

The voice startled him so that he almost tripped on his own cloak turning around to see who had spoken.

At the far end of the hall, below the dais, stood a single figure.

"Why do you stand staring?" The man motioned for him to come forward impatiently. "The host of Mordor stands before our doors and might at any moment break through. Do you have such faith in wood and stone?"

Merry quickened his steps, rather alarmed at the prospect before his realised that it was only a figure of speech.

"In times past one might have trusted to strong walls and a stout defence. Yes, once it might have been so. In the days of my forefathers when war was war and not this insidious darkness that hides the very sun, bringing with it engines of fire."

The man bent over a figure, placing his strong yet weathered hand upon his brow. Merry recognised Boromir and realised that this man was Denethor, his father.

Denethor noticed the look on the Hobbit's face. "He is fading. What hope is there for Gondor should he perish?"

* * *

The strong salty breeze tossed Gimli's mass of hair before his eyes. The bow of the ship tilted beneath them as the two friends looked up over the dark Pelenor to Minas Tirith .

"We have come too late."

Gimli shook his head. "Nay. We have passed through a shadow darker than any that lies ahead, you have only to look behind you to prove it, though I will not look. Their presence freezes my blood. I have never been so afraid, and only by your will and friendship could I endure the journey."

Since they had passed the doors to the paths of the dead Gimli had felt himself within a dark dream, and only Aragorn at his side had held him steady to the road. He knew well why no man who had entered there had returned.

"The city burns," Aragorn said dully, his voice heavy with despair.

"But the gate holds."

Aragorn gripped the rail with white knuckles. "What madness holds the lords and captains of the city? Why are no defences set outside the city walls?"

Gimli ignored the feverish murmurs of his companion, for so it had been since they had come safely out of the shadow upon the river. Instead he sought to focus the man's mind upon what could still be achieved. "Will we meet resistance on the shore?"

"Nay." Aragorn shook his head. "The tale of our coming has been here before us and they have fled in their ships."

"The King of the dead has come." Gimli smiled though there was little humour in his words.

"And perhaps nothing more if we do not make haste!"

* * *

Tear stains traced through the dust on Pippin's face and his eyes blurred. His legs collapsed at last and he fell into the dirt. The sharp swipe of a whip into his legs made him jerk forwards but he knew he could not rise again.

Something passed behind him, shielding his body from the hot sun and harsh anger of the Orcs that were always at his back forcing him to walk onwards. His wrists were already rubbed raw and bleeding from the rope that tethered him to the horse. The animal had stopped, but seemed inpatient to move on by the way it shuffled its feet in the dust. It would have to drag him for his feet could no longer bear his weight.

"Stay your whips, more pain will not help him to rise." Faramir's voice, close behind him.

Pippin sunk further into the dark of his mind. The hard ground felt very comfortable to his sore body.

"Out of the way!"

The sun burnt down upon him suddenly again and his head was suddenly jerked upwards by a hand pulling his hair. He looked up into the face of an Orc, barely seeing the grotesque features. Then the hand was gone and he slumped back to the ground.

A harsh voice, "Give him more encouragement boys!"

"He has had enough. I will help him." Again Faramir's voice and shadow bending over him. He tried for his friends' sake to rise, to show that he was still fighting, but there was a dizziness in his head and blackness was encroaching upon his vision.


	35. Long in the making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 48 – Long in the making**

Legolas met the wizard's eyes, hoping that his own gaze might betray the loathing he felt. He pressed his bound hands into the soft hair at the horse's neck, and the animal skittered and threw back its head, seeming to absorb the Elf's anger.

The Istar's voice once again made the offer, soft and compelling, "One word and the Elf will take your place, you can rest."

Legolas would gladly have taken his friend's place, knowing his own strength would likely last the remaining distance, but the road to Minas Tirith had taken on some private meaning, and Saruman would not give relent until the man had made the choice.

The wizard's offer remained unanswered. Legolas had already seen Pippin fall from exhaustion and did not think he could endure the sight again.

Risking the spears of the surrounding Orcs, Legolas dismounted and dropped to his knees beside Faramir so that Saruman would not hear their words. "You are at the end of your strength, friend. I have some yet. It is no betrayal to let me do this for you."

Faramir was kneeling also, head bent over the ground, as sweat dripped from the ends of his hair into the dust. Legolas could feel his body shaking beneath his fingers as he spoke beneath his breath. "Our friendship was long in the making. It is precious to me, and I will not give it up so soon."

Legolas resisted the Orc who came to force him away and gripped Faramir's arm tightly instead. "It is not worth your life!" He licked his parched lips, scared by the strange calm in the other's gaze.

Before he could say more, he caught sight of the rider named Ceorl approaching from the Rohirric host, his hair streaming out and eyes blazing with some horror. He rode through the Orc ranks and they made way for him, but Legolas saw hunger and restlessness in the way they gripped spear and axe.

Saruman took his eyes from the two companions and turned to the rider. "Why do you hold the line?"

Ceorl's horse skittered to the side as he fought to reign it in, and in doing so revealed the plains far below them.

Catching Legolas' wearied eyes in the far distance was a brilliant spike of silver reaching high into the clouds before them. Built into the mountain side, the city of Minas Tirith was a blaze of white stone set amid the darkening sky of Mordor. Smoke was rising from the Pelenor, plumbing black into the air as the carnage greeted their sight.

"Faramir," Legolas spoke softly so as not to draw attention.

The man raised his head and followed the Elf's gaze toward his city, eyes widening at the sight.

The first wave of Mordor had reached the Minas Tirith, but the city was still standing.

Muttering had begun in the ranks of Saruman's army as the Orcs looked down upon the field of battle, but the voices of the Rohirrim were louder still.

Ceorl's tall horse approached Saruman, the insignia of Rohan shining brightly upon his chest and his face dark. He no longer showed any sign of respect, and even raised his spear as he spoke. "What is this wizard? What other proof is needed that our brothers in Gondor have not betrayed us?" The rider waved his arm to Legolas and Faramir and there was true remorse in his voice. "These are no traitors. They have done naught but beg for our aid in a time of greatest need. Ai, that we had ridden sooner!"

"Your riders have still their part to play in this war." Saruman replied softly. He had clearly not expected Minas Tirith to be already under siege, but did not seem discomposed by the turn of events.

As though an order had been spoken, though no word had passed the wizard's lips, the shriek of metal rang out as hundreds of Orc weapons were raised against the men of Rohan. Wolves bayed, and panic flared for a moment across the rider's eyes as he remembered his men were surrounded and completely outnumbered by the Orc and wolf masses.

"Let Denethor to make a choice," Saruman smiled. "Parley with Saruman or watch his city crumble as the men of Edoras are slaughtered outside his gate. Your riders will play their part. You, however, are inconsequential." The slightest movement of Saruman's hand warned Legolas to the danger and he jumped to his feet in time only to see the man crumple to the ground beneath the feet of his horse and lie there unmoving.

Faramir had looked up also. "My father will not bargain, Saruman. Not for the lives of thousands would he open the gates."

"Send a rider to the city. What will he give for the life of his son?"

* * *

Saruman stood tall on the crest of the rise, regarding the battle playing out at the base of Mindolluin with cool deliberation, not even sparing a glance for the Elf held on his knees before him.

The dawn light caught the white walls of the city below and Legolas almost needed to turn his head away from the blinding sight. He looked in vain for some sign or standard showing Aragorn had entered the city, feeling sure that only with his friend's aid could the Minas Tirith now be saved. His Elven sight was keen, but held as he was he could not see the fields, only the topmost levels of the city

He drew a shallow breath, determined to remain composed and not rise to provocation as he so often had in the last few days. "The way to the city is open," he said quietly, "the might of Sauron will bear the attack and as his servant you can walk in and take what you wish. Why do you wait?"

"Men are weak at heart," Saruman smiled, "But like animals they can be dangerous when cornered. I would know what lies in wait."

Without further preamble Legolas asked the question uppermost in his mind. "Why am I here?"

To his frustration Saruman ignored the question, choosing instead to reach for a blade from the possessions that had been set down near by. "This is a magnificent sword," the wizard remarked casually, turning it over in his long fingers.

Legolas recognised Anduril, which had been taken from him when they were captured. Anger immediately filled him and he strained against the ropes that held his arms. "It is death to any man who draws it from its sheath."

Saruman smiled, undeterred, and remarked. "Save one."

Saruman was now watching him from the corner of his eyes but Legolas could not disguise his anger and frustration that although his friend may be only a few leagues away, fighting for the city, an army divided them.

"When he has entered the city what action will the heir of Isildur take? Will he claim Isildur's bane for his own?"

The question took Legolas by surprise. "You wish me to predict what is to come?"

Saruman was still looking at the sword. "You have known him long. His mind, you understand how it works."

"That may be so, but why you think I would help you?"

Saruman set the sword back in its place with cold deliberation. "You have seen the measures I will take. I trusted that unlike your companions you will not seek to defy me. Do not think I will hesitate to kill you if you do not tell me what I wish to know. I have kept you alive for this purpose alone."

A sound suddenly reached him. Without moving a muscle in his face Legolas recognised the beat of horse hooves upon the earth. His ears had heard the cavalry approach before anyone else in the camp and he silently rejoiced.

His advantage, however, proved unavailing as a moment later Saruman too had detected something amiss. "Guard him," he told the Orcs. "It will be your necks if you let him escape."

Then Saruman was gone, and the thundering of hooves was shaking the earth beneath him like a tremor. The Orcs holding him shifted nervously.

Over the rise the bright tips of spears came followed by their furious bearers. With ease Legolas shook off his captor's loosened grasp and flung himself forwards to where Anduril and their other weapons had been left unguarded.

He relished the feeling of his white knife in his hands, and of the freedom offered through the chaos of the rider's attack. Finally the numbers had turned in their favour, and there was some hope of escape! The Orcs fell in single strokes, and after slicing through the ropes that bound his hands he bent to search amid Saruman's possessions.

Just as he had retrieved their belongings, he heard his name called, and scanned the battlefield for a familiar face. He did not recognise the tall figure on the horse approaching him, for a helmet shielded his nose and brow. It was not Hama, and he wondered who else among the Rohirrim would call him by name.

The horseman reined in, looking him over quickly as if to assess his well-being. "So you are alive! The dwarf will be pleased."

Legolas looked up, his interest kindled.

Eomer was watching him warily, as if he was likely to sprout wings and fly away at any moment, but the Elf's reaction to the news that Gimli was alive was so natural that some of this initial distrust fell away. Despite his obvious relief in finding him alive, Legolas sensed some great sorrow weighing down the heart of this man.

"I am Eomer. Will you ride with me?" the young horselord asked, extending an arm to Legolas. "I must lead our riders to the city, for our King is slain, the fell beasts return, and we cannot hold the advantage much longer. The wizard's forces outnumber our own many times over, and I must take new council and decide what is to be done now our people are as one again."

Legolas realised that the man now offering his hand had recently become powerful indeed, but he shook his head, his eyes already shifting for any sight of his friends. "I thank you." He nodded. "Tell Aragorn, if you see him, that I have something of his that will be returned." He smiled slightly at the thought of seeing his old friend once more. "But for now I must seek for the others who were taken with me, and pray they have survived the battle. Tell me, have you a tinder box?"

After a moment Eomer tossed it down to him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Legolas sought out the Saruman's supply of fine alcohol from amid the wizard's possessions, quickly dousing the pile. He then struck a flame and lit the area, watching to ensure the flames took flight and began to eat away at all the wizard's belongings.

He hoped he would not meet Saruman hereafter for he was sure the wizard would not take kindly to the sabotage.

An uneasy fear had taken hold of him, and as Eomer spurred away he felt it grow and begin to take shape. He turned west, for the other end of the battlefield, and broke into a run.

* * *

Something had taken hold of Pippin's wrists while he was unconscious and was now tugging at the ropes. He moaned in pain and kicked out with his legs at whatever had hold of him, before realising that it was not an Orc but a rider. A helmet obscured the face but even as Pippin stilled his struggles the rider lifted the helmet slightly so that he might glimpse golden hair and a familiar face looking down on him. Eowyn!

Pippin opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, and while a dagger sliced through the ropes that bound him he could do nothing but stare in disbelief.

It was only then that he felt the pounding of hooves on the ground beneath him, and heard the cries of battle all around them.

"We must make haste," the lady said softly but urgently as she shook Faramir. "I have waited long for a chance to free you, but the wizard will not take long to realise you have escaped."

Pippin looked around. Legolas was not there, and as he did not remember anything of the past few hours he knew nothing of where the Elf might have been taken. The landscape around them was blotted out by a mass of Saruman's creations, forced into a surprise battle as their Rohirric prisoners revolted to join their rescuers from the city.

The rise to their right, once grassy and smooth, had been pounded to dust by the hooves of hundreds of horses, their riders gripping long lances that streaked into the sky above them. The combined force of Theoden's men and a cavalry from Gondor had met the unprepared enemy head on, charging through their ranks and giving the captive men of Rohan a chance to free themselves.

Of all this Pippin could see nothing that made sense. Everything seemed to hurt, his head most of all. His wrists bled from being dragged along by the horse on the previous day and he knew his shirt was torn and bloodied from the whips that had forced him to run. His hair was battered into his face by the wind, but suddenly none of these aches and worries concerned him.

Amid the turmoil of battle another sound had taken possession of his mind. It was a sound he feared beyond anything else, and so forcing himself at last into action, he desperately tried to shake Faramir awake. Without success he finally turned haunted eyes to the sky as the terrible scream of the flying creature took hold of his mind and tore any rational thought to shreds.

The shadow that fell across the sun and the beat of heavy wings seemed to hold his body immobile against the earth. He shook uncontrollably, huddled down as low as he could, as the gaze of those empty eyes searched him out.

Faramir's grasp upon his hand was finally returned, but Pippin no longer had the sense for anything but the thought that winged beast was searching for him alone.

Eowyn took hold of his arm now and attempted to pull him to his feet. There was a shriek as a long sword was drawn from her sheath and Pippin felt a short sword pushed into his slack grip. It felt familiar, and he realised it was his own sword that he must have lost in the hall at Edoras. She must have kept it for him! There was little, he knew, that such a weapon could do against such a foe as this, but it was a comfort nevertheless.

He lost his hold on Faramir as the man moved away unsteadily to find a weapon of his own, and staggered back as the fell beast beat the dusty earth with its heavy wings.

The tall figure of Eowyn stepped up to the Witch King as he rose on his stead to look down upon his prey.

"Give me the halfling." The cold voice bled into Pippin's heart. He felt the stillness creep over him as it had upon Amon Hen, crushing his chest and fogging his thoughts with a terror almost insurmountable.

The Nazgul's steed lunged its long neck forwards, seeking to tear apart the lady of Rohan's flesh with its sharp teeth, but she nimbly dodged away. Its master spoke again, and Pippin pressed his hands over his ears. "Give me the halfling and you shall be let to live."

He thought he would truly go mad if he lay exposed one more moment beneath that hollow stare, but he was thrust back and shielded from sight as Faramir returned, now wielding an Orc blade, his hair streaming out,

"You shall not take him!" Eowyn cried.

Pippin saw Faramir look up in recognition of her voice, and the same horror that was in Pippin's heart flash across his friend's face. They both knew that she would surely be slain alongside them.

"The Dark Lord has no interest in Curunír's skirmishes." The hollow beneath the war mask seemed to exude its distaste. "The day of reckoning has not come yet to this land, and he looks only for the return of his property."

Repressing a shiver of fear as the shadow King's eyes sought him out, Pippin felt a determined pressure upon his arm and knew that Faramir was urging him run.

"Curunír knows what you seek," Faramir was saying as Pippin's heart beat faster, "and he seeks it for his own ends."

Again, the pressure upon his arm, but Pippin just could not bring himself to run, for surely the Black Rider would simply cut down any in its path to find him once more.

"Sauron needs no man's council! He will crush your city, man of Gondor, with or without the wizard. Now move aside."

Pippin could see that the Witch King was rapidly losing patience, and Faramir must have seen it too for he dared to turn his back upon the enemy to urge the Hobbit run. Pippin saw the dark shape of the beast's head lunging forwards once more and felt his own eyes widen in panic. In them Faramir saw the danger, but too late. He turned, driving his thick blade deep into the descending neck of the beast. However the surprise attack had caught the man off balance. Writhing against the fatal blow, the creature struck out at its attacker, its heavy wing slamming into Faramir's side and crushing his body to the earth far from Pippin's reach. From a distance the Hobbit heard himself crying out in shock and watched through bleary eyes as the Witch King's steed ceased its death struggles and lay still.

Eowyn still bared the Nazgul's path to its victim. With its pale sword held before him he slid from the saddle and approached. The anger that now pulsed from the shadow King struck Pippin like a blow, sending him reeling back.

"My steed is slain and I will take vengeance. Stand aside." The King raised his terrible sword that had once cut so deeply into Frodo's flesh. "Do you still defy me? Is it not said that no man may kill me."

"You will not touch them!" cried Eowyn, tearing off her helmet so that he might look upon the face of a woman.

Pippin did not scream her name, could not even form the word. He ran instead to Faramir's side and tried to force the man to rise. There was no one else who could help. The battlefield was clearing, moving west as Saruman's force was slowly driven back to higher ground - and even then no rider approached the Witch King's prey.

With failing spirits he saw all too quickly that his friend had not the strength for this fight. There was blood, nothing in his eyes was clear through tears of fear but the red pooling onto the earth. Looking into the too pale face Pippin saw Faramir was indeed was awake, and he seemed as though trying to speak but his eyes kept drifting closed as if he were fighting unconsciousness.

A cry brought him to his senses and from the corner of his eye he saw the Lady's shield break under the terrible force of the terrible blade.

With a silent vow Pippin gripped Faramir's hand tightly and then scrambled to his feet. He had promised to repay his debt and return the man to his city safely, but he had failed, and if they were all to die, at least they could try and deal one stroke of damage. Skirting round the back of the wraith Pippin crushed all doubt and plunged his small dagger into the gap in the plating at the knee.

There was a shooting pain up his arm as the blade melted in his hand, a swirl of black as the creature turned and then something harder than iron crashed into his skull. Thrown to the ground and burning with pain he saw Eowyn's figure above him, and a blade driven deep into the enemy's throat.


	36. A fool's daydream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

**Chapter 49 - A fool's daydream**

Hours passed and Denethor still kept his vigil by his eldest son. There had been no change, and the muffled sounds of the battle raging below barely reached the high hall. Merry stood by the tapered window, peering down to the southern plains where the men of Gondor fought to retain their hold.

"Will you not fight, my lord?" Merry had foolishly inquired.

A low laugh answered him. "It is not the place of great lords of men to fight; they have others to fight their battles, spending even their sons..."

Merry looked again to the window and the mass of shadowed figures far below, seeing in his mind how easily an Orc blade might cut through the legions of frightened men.

"But surely," he said after a long quiet, hesitating in his question, "it would give men courage and hope to know their lord fights alongside them?"

"What is hope but a fool's daydream? Nay, better that each man face the truth, and in that clarity face his own end."

A messenger had entered the hall, and he walked the length towards them with faltering steps.

"My lord Denethor."

Merry noted the haste with which the man handed over the missive to his Steward and left the hall.

Denethor turned the letter over in his strong fingers, and Merry saw at once the mark of the white hand stamped across the paper. The Steward did not speak as he read, but his brow was dark and the letter was quickly crushed and thrown aside.

"My lord?" Merry asked falteringly, his eyes following the crushed letter and burning to pick it up and discover its contents. Not daring to do so, he watched as the other resumed his place by Boromir, taking the man's hand in his and stroking it. The Steward's eyes shone in the dark, and Merry was frightened.

"What King must endure what I endure?" Denethor murmured, so low that Merry could barely catch the words. "I would that things could be as they were in all the days of my life: to be the Lord of this city in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me.

Merry licked his lips, unsure of how to offer comfort.

He eyed the letter yet again, wondering if it brought news of Faramir and Legolas, perhaps of Pippin!

He opened his mouth to brave the lord's harsh words in asking, but the high window caught his eyes. There was some kind of mist gathering to the south; Merry's eyes sought to distinguish its source. Perhaps it came from the river, he thought, squinting as the mass seemed to swell before his eyes.

Suddenly he realised it was no mist, but figures racing towards the city with a speed greater than that of horses. He cried out and moved to the window, yet Denethor did not leave the side of his son to look on as the dread army closed with the ranks of the enemy.

A great fear filled Merry, and while he saw their pale swords gleam in the moonlight. Their weapons were held aloft, but they needed to strike no blow, for both enemy and friend fled their coming. He felt a dread he had not experienced since he, Frodo and Sam were hunted by the Nazgul on the banks of the Anduin.

The army seemed to move like the sea towards Minas Tirith, sweeping over the small figures that scattered before it and engulfing them in its course. Merry held his breath as this force broke against the walls as a wave might against the shore. It was then that he realised all sounds of battle had ceased. This dread army, carrying the fear of the dead before them, was sweeping away the first wave of Mordor as though it had been a dream.

* * *

Aragorn was tending to a fresh leg wound when Eomer arrived. "What news?" he asked at once, turning to the horselord with an intensity he could not restrain. "How went the rescue?"

The time was drawing near when he must reveal his true identity to the city, but current concerns remained uppermost in his mind. "Did your men free any prisoners? Any news of Legolas or Faramir?"

"Legolas sends word," Eomer reported, happy to be the bringer of good news.

Aragorn's exhalation of breath could not convey his relief and joy at the news. "They live!"

"The Elf lived certainly when I left him, but we were in the heart of the battle, and he sought his other companions. He said too to tell you that he has something of value he will return when you next meet. Of the others I found nothing." Eomer lips pressed tightly together. "I am sorry."

Aragorn had expected nothing, so news of Legolas was at least some comfort. Knowing that his friends were safe from Saruman's manipulations was the only news that could put his mind at rest. Gimli's unwavering support he could not have done without, and Gandalf's return had been a wonderful surprise. He missed, however, Legolas' strong reliable presence at his side, and realised that relying on Faramir had become a second nature.

"Will you enter the city?" Eomer asked, and Aragorn could see in the young horselord's face that he did not yet understand what was at risk if Aragorn chose to enter Minas Tirith.

The coming of the Army of the Dead and the raising of his standard upon the field would have revealed to Denethor his arrival, though he did not expect anything to come of that. "It is not so simple."  
"You passed through the Dark Door of the Dwimorberg and emerged with a shadow army in your wake. There is little that can now stand in your way. But with Saruman's army so close, why did you not order your ghost army to remain?"

"Gimli asked me the same. They had fulfilled their oath, and it was not their part to fight the hoards of Saruman. Their oath was to Isildur against Sauron - and likely their swords would have failed against another foe."

"I think I understand. Though it is a pity."

Aragorn smiled grimly.

"I must see to the wounded men," Eomer said, restless, "and to Theoden King also, for I would not see him borne into the city by strangers."

* * *

"The riders are entering the city," Merry said. His body was stiff and the events of the night still mixed up in his head.

At last Denethor rose from his vigil and joined Merry by the window.

Merry looked desperately for any sign of his friends, but could only see hundreds of riders, their helms shining.

There were temporary tents being pitched on the plains, marked with the insignia of Gondor but clearly marking the coming of some other figure. Merry had a secret hope that it was Aragorn, for who else could command the power to wake the dead and make them fight! He was wise enough, however, to say nothing of this to Denethor, for the Steward had gained a sour expression as he eyed the tents.

Muffled voices reached them from outside and a figure entered the hall.

"My lord. My lord Denethor." The winded Gondorian soldier bowed stiffly, his face tense.

"Lord Eomer sends his respects and will remain with his men as they are brought into the city."

"See that the Rohirrim are given supplies and their horses tended."

"The lord Mithrandir has come to the citadel, m'lord. He seeks audience."

Merry started with shock, his heart suddenly racing.

"Mithrandir is known to you I see," Denethor said, watching Merry carefully.

"I thought he was lost!" Merry cried.

The calculating gaze of the Steward showed no surprise, but the slight inclination of his eyebrows indicated to Merry that his estimation of his Hobbit guest had risen. "Let him come."

The soldier left and after a time that seemed too long to Merry, Gandalf entered.

Running the length of the hall to greet his old friend the Hobbit saw that while seeming the same in essentials, the wizard had changed much since their last meeting. He was no longer dressed in grey, but a robe of blinding white. His hair was white also, and while this should have made him look older, he seemed full of vigour.

"You are not dead!" Merry blurted out before anything more sensible had time to brew.

"Thank you Merry, it had slipped my mind." The twinkle he had missed returned to the wizard's eyes. "A Hobbit's common sense really is invaluable."

Before Gandalf could say another word Merry had flung himself around the wizard's waist, feeling the burden he had carried alone melt away in relief.

Gandalf rested his old hand on the Hobbit's curly head, and seemed at once to understand all that had passed.

Still holding Merry's shoulder Gandalf approached Denethor and greeted the Steward with respect. His sharp eyes took in the stretcher bearing Boromir's fevered form and softened with pity. "Why is your son not with the healers?"

The Steward ran a hand across the younger man's forehead. "There is nothing to be done. A Southron poison, close to the heart and working inwards. None have the knowledge or skill to treat this wound."

"None, my Lord? Do you not suspect that the hands which brought a shadow army to save your city might also bring healing? Outside your gates, lord Denethor, waits the means to save your son." Gandalf's eyes had softened with compassion, "Do not let pride deny him this chance."

"Pride?" The simple word kindled more life in the Steward than Merry had yet seen. "You think I am blind? I see your mind and what you would have me do, how you would force my hand. But lost legends have no place in war. Heir of Isildur he may be, but what is he now but the last of a ragged household long bereft of lordship?"

Merry's heart leapt at the news that Aragorn had indeed come to Minas Tirith, but his joy was cut short with the realisation that the Steward was determined to risk the life of his son.

"Nay, Mithrandir, the rule of Gondor has rested long in the hands of the Stewards and so it shall remain, though fate seeks to take my sons from me."

"Sons? Have you had news, then, of Faramir?"

At the words Merry took his chance, and scrambled to recover the parchment crumpled upon the ground. He held it out to Gandalf before the Steward could speak.

As Gandalf took and opened the missive, his brow furrowed as Denethor's had before him, and his eyes grew dark.

"What is it Gandalf?"

"Saruman. The Rohirrim are even now returning from a bid to free those Saruman had enthralled. Here is proof," he said, shaking the letter, "that our companions were taken among the party. Let us only hope that the quest was successful, and that our friends were freed also."

Gandalf did not enquire, Merry noticed, as to whether any response had been made to Saruman's letter. Perhaps its crumpled appearance told the story well enough.

Gandalf watched Denethor return to sit by his son, but then turned his gaze quickly to the Hobbit, as though willing him to speak out.

Merry licked his lips nervously and spoke his thoughts, "Your son is dying, my Lord. He is strong but cannot fight forever. If he dies now when something might have been done to save him you will ever rue this choice."

The Steward's anger seemed to go out of him as he considered the small Hobbit and his words. "Your simple words hold truth." He slumped down into the chair beside his son and spoke with a hollow voice. "Go then, Mithrandir. Do what you will. I see now that it is not my place to prevent it."

* * *

Faramir crawled from beneath the winged creature with difficulty. In throwing him to the ground one of the great spikes that lined the beast's wing had sliced into the flesh at his side. When at last he was free he rested his head against the earth, bleeding freely until he summoned the strength to staunch the flow with the side of his cloak. He was weak, but it was not long before his head cleared and he was able to crawl towards the fallen bodies of his friends.

Pippin was very cold, and while this alarmed him at first he could feel the faint beat of the Hobbit's chest. Eowyn's heart seemed much less strong and even after the relief of finding signs of life he let his hand remain as though to assure himself she yet lived. The pallor of her face inspired such a tightness in his chest, wounded as he was, that he could barely breathe. He wiped blood from her brow with his hand but realised with quiet desperation that there was nothing he alone could do to preserve her life.

Cursing the Nazgul's evil, the memory of Eowyn's final victory seeming a pale dream, he looked to the pile of ashes that were all that remained. Something shone there, and he reached out and carefully took it into his hand, his mind working sluggishly.

"Faramir!"

The voice shook him from his distraction, and he quickly hid the thing out of sight. Turning his head painfully he was filled with joy to see Legolas, bow in hand, running towards them. He let himself rest once more in relief, and came to confused some moments after, aware of strong, gentle hands leaning him back upon the ground.

He heard the Elf examining Eowyn and Pippin, but could not gain the strength to sit up. When his vision had cleared and he tried to do so, Legolas returned and pushed him back down again, studying him with anxious eyes.

"Is that your blood?" His friend's sharp eyes had caught the ragged ends of cloth at his side and he was now trying to remove the fold of his cloak with which Faramir had tried to staunch the blood.

"See to Pippin first."

But the Elf's ministrations were persistent and without the strength to do otherwise Faramir relented. But for a small intake of breath, Legolas showed no reaction to the wound. He acted quickly, pressing the cloth back to his side and bringing Faramir's own hands over the area, and said, "it doesn't appear too deep. Can you walk?"

In soft tones the Elf then roused Pippin. The Hobbit awoke at last, pale and stern, but brightening with tears when he realised Legolas had returned for them. His right arm hung limply by his side, and he stared down at his hands as though walking in a dream. Legolas told him gently that they must head for the city as the riders could not hold Saruman at bay much longer.

A grimace touched Legolas' face as he bent and lifted Eowyn in his arms. He carried her gently, yet moved quickly for in her grey pallor they could see the shadow of death and feared lest she die before they reach the city gate.


	37. What shall my life be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

_It was as "if all lowering Ilion had been burning top to bottom in fire... What shall my life be in my sorrows, now you are dead?"  
~ Iliad XXII ~_

"Your wisdom does not extend to your own hurts I see." Legolas' brow was furrowed, looking sidelong at Faramir as they walked toward the tent bearing Aragorn's standard. "Should you encounter that healer again take care, she could have breathed fire."

Delivering Pippin and Eowyn into the reliable hands at the city gate and avoiding abduction themselves had been a difficult task.

"I have clean new bandages," Faramir said, "and would not forgo this reunion for all the hearty meals and hot baths in the city."

"At least the temptation of a hearty meal was too much for Pippin, else he may not have got the care he required." Legolas made the jest, but in his heart knew the Hobbit had barely reached the city gates.

They had come now to the tent, and took a short moment to gaze upon the standard Arwen had woven raised high above the entrance. Legolas saw a delight and reverence kindle in his companion's eyes.

Their quiet moment was broken by wonderfully familiar Dwarf tones booming from inside. "You cannot think to perch out here while the wizard masses his forces - and with another wave from Mordor set to cross the river?"

They shared a look before pushing the tent entrance open.

Joyous surprise greeted them and their friends' open arms. Legolas saw in Aragorn's features a greater weight and strain than he had seen before in their long friendship, but great delight also in their reunion. Gimli's embrace crushed his pained chest, but he did not mind so glad he was to see the Dwarf once more.

"And now is the time you choose to return," the Dwarf was saying. "After battle and fear is been and done."

"The war remains," Aragorn said, but his eyes were smiling also, "and the worst is yet to come. But come, my friends, and eat and drink awhile with us. You look as though you need it."

"It cheers me to see you have been made welcome," Faramir said, and thanked Gimli for the food he offered.

"The people of your city, while reserved, are generous in their food at the least!" Gimli shook a leg of chicken to demonstrate his point.

Legolas gazed hungrily at the food and drink, but knew things must be put right before they rested.

"Estel," he said, and Aragorn turned from where he poured drinks for his weary companions. "I return something you have long missed."

Legolas lifted Anduril on his palms, presenting it to his friend with reverence.

"I did not think to see this blade again." Aragorn took it, and his eyes shone with some unknown sadness. "Thank you, my friend. This means much."

They ate ravenously, so long on the march with only the Orcs' foul food for sustenance. Legolas himself felt quite sleepy after the companionable meal.

"And as I was saying before I was interrupted," Gimli began again when they all sat back in satisfaction, "what is to be done? Surely it is not our plan to sit here and feast on the edge of ruin, waiting for both Saruman and Sauron to knock on our tent, or for some mumakil to trample it into the ground?"

Aragorn looked away, his thoughts clearly troubled.

"I must go up to the citadel," Faramir said, and set his cup down. "Now that I have seen you both alive and well." His gaze was steady when he looked to Aragorn. "Will you not walk beside me?"

Legolas watched, and remembered long ago in Lorien when he had foreseen this moment. How different were his feelings now!

Aragorn thought long, hooding his eyes. "Not yet, my friend. But seek out your kin, and I may come after when I deem the time is right."

Faramir stood without showing any surprise, "Farewell then for now, but do not tarry long in your coming. Gondor has waited long for her King, and she grows impatient!"

The three companions remained in Aragorn's tent some time after Faramir had departed, and they exchanged stories of the time they had been separated.

Legolas marvelled at the stories of the Dwimaborg, and saw in Gimli more fear and trembling than ever yet the stout Dwarf had shown. In the coming of the grey company to Pelargir, however, Legolas felt he had evaded a more deadly peril, for what would it be just as Elves were leaving Middle Earth to stand upon the deck of a ship and look upon the sea!

In return Legolas told his own adventures: how he and Faramir had come to Edoras only one day behind Aragorn and Gimli, and of how they had schemed to shake Saruman off the scent of the ring.

"Ah! So we can blame you for the second army on the doorstep?" growled Gimli good naturedly.

Legolas hesitated in describing their journey from Rohan to Gondor, as the memories were still fresh. While they had not suffered beyond endurance at the hands of the Orcs, their helplessness had been mortifying, and the wizard's cold intent still lingered in his thoughts.

"This wizard needs some harsh justice," Gimli said, and reached aside for his axe as though to set out at once. "But at least Middle Earth is less one scheming servant of Saruman," he added, as Legolas told of Eowyn and her encounter. "Grima Wormtoungue will not be missed."

"And yet he played his part," Legolas returned, "but I will not speak of that yet."

In the midst of Legolas' telling of his meeting with Saruman overlooking the besieged Minas Tirith, Gandalf slipped through the gap in the tent.

Legolas bowed his head deeply, the wizard's new white robes almost blinding his sight.

"You have returned to us, master Elf!" Gandalf said, "at the very edge of the shadow may all friends be gathered together again."

Without more speech he swiftly approached Aragorn, gripping his arm in some earnest haste.

"What has happened?"

'Denethor requests your presence inside the city."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "I know you too well not to suspect you had no hand in this."

"His son teeters on the edge of life and perhaps your hand alone might draw him back. Saving this man's life will give Denethor the justification you need to command the armies of the city."

"You speak truly? I had not expected this."

Gandalf looked to Legolas and Gimli, already turning on his heel to go. "I will go ahead. Follow fast."

* * *

Crossing the Courtyard of the Fountain, Faramir shrugged off his cloak, folding it under his arm to hide the worst of the mud and blood. It was strange to walk amid his people again after so long. Heads ducked in acknowledgement as he passed, and he felt conscious that he had not even found a moment to bathe.

He spared a look for the still barren tree as he passed, before entering into the citadel and proceeding to his father's halls. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. What welcome could he expect after so long a journey? From whispers overheard as he passed through the circles he dreaded what might be awaiting him.

On the steps below the king's chair stooped Denethor. His father appeared to have aged many years since their last meeting, not with the unnatural weight of sorcery that had cast Theoden into docility, but with strain and grief.

Beneath his withered hands lay Boromir in a fevered sleep. Faramir's steps echoed to the hollow feeling in his own chest as he approached brother and father.

"So you have returned," his father said as Faramir knelt by the bier, reaching out to feel for himself the sweat dampened cheek of Boromir.

He searched for something recognisable in his brother's features, for they were much wasted with illness and it grieved him to see Boromir laid so low.

His breath was caught up in his throat and he made no reply to his father's words. Though the Steward said no kindly words, Faramir thought his father's eyes softened, and in them he saw one who had been driven to the very edge of a precipice, and with some small mercy had taken a step back from the edge. Perhaps his homecoming was not unlooked for.

He brushed aside as stray hair that clung to Boromir's fevered forehead, then looked to his father, asking the question he could not speak allowed.

Denethor understood him, and his voice became very quiet, though not now with compassion. "He was in Ithilien."

The revelation came as a shock. He swallowed. Aware of the petitioning and vigilance required to maintain Gondor's furthest outpost, and knowing too that their Captain would not have left them to disrepair, Denethor could not have wondered why Boromir was in Ithilien.

Faramir looked up, meeting the accusation with the full force of his anger and grief. "Do not lay this upon me."

With a snarl his father stood, "Why else should he go there? What other voice could turn him from his duty at the forts? Swords are no protection from darts and arrows."

Harad arrows could cut though soldiers easily, Faramir had seen it often, and tended the wounded until the cruel poisons with which their weapons were laced, drained and slowly destroyed the strongest men. The cruellest of deaths... Boromir... His eyes remained dry even at this last revelation, for he knew that a thousand tears would not appease Denethor's grief and anger, or his own.

"And what now is to be done?" he asked, knowing in his heart that his father would lose this war in losing his son.

Denethor waved his arm dismissively, "At this last my hand has been forced. Your ragged King and his tame wizard come even now to the citadel. Await their coming if it pleases you. I care not what you do."

* * *

Whispers besieged Faramir's already aggrieved mind as he passed down the halls to his rooms; murmurings of the army of dead warriors that had saved the city from certain ruin. The people were confused, frightened.

The city appeared lost and floundering with no leader. Imrahil had led his swan knights from Dol Amroth by the sea and had been in command of Gondor's forces since the fall of their Captain General. Yet it was clear that not all would follow his orders alone, nor even obey the wisdom of Gandalf who had, it seemed, done much to strengthen the defence of the city since his return. It grieved him that for all his father's teachings, in the Steward's eyes the fall of his son and the destruction of his city were akin, and he would lift no hand to do what might still be done.

Slowing his steps he stood for a while unmoving. All was silent, and even the beat of his own heart was dull. Leaning his back against the wall a moment, he recalled Lorien when he had suspected this would come to pass, but not so soon... he had thought, had hoped that he would come before it was too late.

He heard his named called, and opening his eyes recognised one of Imrahil's men. Brushing off the man's concern he received the man's message, that his uncle and the rest of his companions had taken to the Houses for council.

As the healers carefully bore Boromir to the lower levels of the city, he himself would swiftly wash and find a change of clothes, and thence follow them to the houses.

When he entered the largest room in the houses he found many familiar faces. Mithrandir's white robes caught his eyes at once, and it was a dream to see him there whole and well as Aragorn and Gimli had described.

Merry was seated by Gandalf at the end of the long chamber, his eyes distant and red with unshed tears, and Aragorn and Gimli sat near by. Legolas stood against the far wall and Eomer paced like some caged animal, his mind clearly occupied by thoughts of his sister.

He walked the length of the room, feeling their eyes upon him. Imrahil approached him at once, gripping his upper arms and holding him still as he searched his nephew's face.

"I am not about to fall apart, Uncle," he said, though gently, for he could see in the other's clenched jaw and haunted eyes the restrained fear that must have shown in his own.

Imrahil slacked his grip, nodding. "No," he smiled sadly, "No I can see that." He shifted his hand to his nephew's shoulder and guided him to a chair. "It would take much to break you, Faramir," he said very quietly.

Saruman had once said something similar.

"What of the wounded?" he asked quickly.

"They are both stricken by the same malady," Eomer said thickly, and Merry's sniff showed he was equally uneasy about the fate of his cousin. "One the healers do not understand." There was undisguised anger and fear in his tone, and in the glance he threw at Aragorn.

"I will tend to them as soon as we are done here," Aragorn promised in return.

"Thank the Valar you did not strike out at the shadow king, my friend," Legolas said, "for in daring to strike such a foe both Hobbit and lady have been accursed."

"Your own brother has had some care," Eomer said, and there was only the smallest of bitter feeling in his tone. "And you will find all three in the adjoining room together, though none have yet woken."

Faramir looked quickly to Aragorn, seeking some kind of reassurance.

"He is well for the time-being, my friend, and your father looks over him."

"We must," Gandalf said firmly, speaking for the first time since Faramir had entered, "make decisions for the here and now, and then time can be gifted to the wounded."

Imrahil stood once more, "You are right, we must discuss how we stand."

Faramir eyes flickered to the adjoining chamber, but he took his place by Legolas' side to listen.

"Our position as I see it," Eomer said, ceasing his pacing for a moment to speak his mind, "is that the two armies will converge on the city together, and our forces will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers within one, perhaps two days at the very most. Even if the people retreat into the upper levels of the city, once the great gate has fallen there is little hope of holding such a large force at bay, and no reinforcements at this late hour."

"You think so?" Gandalf was stroking his beard absent-mindedly, yet his eyes were sharp. "I believe Curunír will not wait. He will hope that by attacking first without waiting for Sauron's bidding he will gain faster and surer access to that which he seeks."

"The ring," Merry said flatly.

Imrahil gave a small cough, not having been privy to the fellowship's true purpose - his mind worked quickly however. "Does he believe then that we have this thing?"

"He does not know for sure," Gandalf said, "yet it has always been a possibility - and perhaps he would not suspect us to be so rash as we have been."

Faramir's mind was suddenly alight with ideas - the vague plan that had been forming for days was taking some shape. "Perhaps we should ensure all doubt is put aside," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

It was a wild idea, reckless and perhaps foolhardy. "We are outnumbered, trapped. If Frodo still lives and is to complete his task we must give him time. The odds of maintaining a siege are slim if non existent. Two separate armies seek our destruction, and what I have long considered is these two forces turning their strength not to breaking down our defences but upon each other."

"How would such a thing to be achieved?"

The sober nature of Gimli's question forced him to realise his idea had been credited with some hope of success. He looked to Legolas, who seemed already to have understood, and placed the precious object he had taken from the remains of the Lord of the Nazgul upon the table.

The small golden ring shone in the light shining through the bright windows of the Houses of Healing.

Gimli's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

Gandalf looked at the object warily, and did not reach out a hand to touch it.

Eomer breathed out through his nose at the sight. "More talk of rings and devilry? This is not warfare as I have known it."

"This is not warfare at all, my lord," Gandalf said. "This has ever been a battle of stealth and will, and swords and spears only our veil over the dark tower's sight.

"This is not war as Gondor has seen it," Imrahil said, "but if Mithrandir can summon another grey host to save the city as yestereve I will support the way of stealth."

"But what can be done with this accursed thing?" Eomer's frustration had broken through to his voice. "Surely you do not suggest one of us dons this trinket? All know the rings gifted to the kings of men are deadly, and that any man who wore it would even now be subsumed by the enemy's will."

"It looks," Merry said quietly, "as much like Frodo's ring as no matter."

The others all looked to him, and in his simple words began to understand.

"Saruman already believes the ring lies in Minas Tirith, to make that into certainly, to focus the wizard's mind so that nothing else is noticed."

"But how?"

"There is," Legolas said, "among Saruman's possessions a glowing orb, kept secret. And it lies there still... if it survived the fire I set amid his belongings before we escaped."

"A palantir!" Gandalf breathed, leaning forward, looking with an intense question to Legolas.

"But how can a stone help?" Merry asked.

"The Seeing Stones of old were not only devices of sight - they were also used to communicate in thought."

"So through Saruman's stone," Gimli said, "he communicated with the Dark Lord?"

Gandalf nodded. "Now we know how the link between Isengard and Orthanc may be used to our advantage."

"But how?"

"I have seen," Faramir said, knowing that at this last he could hold nothing back, "another such stone here in the city."

"One with strength of mind and an iron will might turn the stone to his own purpose," Gandalf said, his gaze unfocused. "The Stones of Seeing do not lie, but such a one might, by his will choose what things shall be seen, or cause them to mistake the meaning of what they see."

"I don't understand," Imrahil shook his head. "what advantage is there to make the wizard more sure of his suspicions. Surely his attack on the city will be all the more vicious."

"Saruman would seek out the citadel, and might disregard in his haste the decimation of the city."

Gandalf nodded. "If Sauron too believes Curunír has reached out his hand to claim his possession he may empty his lands to prevent it, bend his full will to crushing the servant who betrayed him. If the conflict can be played out to give Frodo his chance, it would be worth the risk."

"Using the stone would be a dangerous undertaking," Legolas said, "even for you, Mithrandir."

"Not I," Gandalf said at once, "there is only one here who may have the strength and right to bend it to his will."


	38. To labour in healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)
> 
>  **Note that originally accompanied this chapter:**  
>  While I originally hoped to also follow Frodo Sam and Radagast to the end of their journey, I realised it was this that held me back from finishing the tale for many years, so in order to finish the tale I have focused on the events in Minas Tirith. I hope this does not disappoint any fans of Frodo / Sam's Mordor journey.

Merry's eyes drooped as he sat by Pippin's bed. He was worn out, and while the excitement of being reunited with the rest of the fellowship had held him upright for a while, now he very nearly slept where he sat. He had watched until the Hobbit, happy in his awakening, had returned to a peaceful slumber. Merry's only remaining hope was that Aragorn could perform the same miracle for the Steward's son and the pale lady of Rohan.

Soft murmurings lulled him as Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer talked across the chamber where Aragorn was seeing to Boromir. The Warden of the Houses of Healing was there also, but he seemed a kindly man and Merry felt as comfortable in his presence as with his human companions.

Denethor alone did not speak, and though Merry's eyes closed in soft slumber he felt the Steward's watchfulness and suspicion like a cloak over the proceedings.

"Sit now in peace by your son, lord Steward," Merry heard the Warden say after what seemed a very long time.

Merry shook himself at the words and looked around, Pippin's slack fingers slipping from his grasp onto the bed sheets.

"Miraculous healing has been done this day of the like we have not seen in many an age. We are blessed, for great heart it will give the people of the city to hear the lord Boromir will yet live!"

Aragorn smiled over at Merry. The man's eyes were as weary as his own, but Merry felt acknowledgement of the part he himself had played in this healing, and in bringing Boromir home to safety.

Denethor approached the Hobbit also, and Merry drew back slightly, fully awake now and a little afraid of the other's intense bearing.

"I thank you now, master Hobbit," he said, and his voice was rough with little speech and much watching. "As I should have done earlier had my grief and fear not overcome my conduct." The Steward's sleepless eyes had frightened Merry at first, but he now saw only one who had loved his son before all else.

Denethor's pride, however, had not fallen under the spell of his relief. Witnessing Faramir's grateful embrace of Aragorn, to whom thanks should have gone in equal part, his nostrils flared and he regained his seat and took to watching once more.

Aragorn did not seem to expect more thanks, and only moved to Eomer, who waited fretfully by his sister, holding her pale hands.

"She is slipping further into this deathlike sleep," the horselord said, and the fear and agitation in his tone grated upon Merry's pity.

Faramir came to stand by Merry to watch quietly, and they shared a thin-lipped smile.

Aragorn said nothing yet, but gently separated the young King's hand from his sister's and himself took the seat by her bedside, pressing one hand to her forehead.

"She is growing weaker, Eomer, but has not slipped so far away that I cannot reach her and attempt to draw her back."

Merry saw the rider's neck muscles tense as though he was finding it difficult to swallow.

Aragorn spoke gently, and so softly that Merry could not catch the words.

Fluttering of the lady's eyelashes met the attempt, and a silent struggle ensured that seemed to draw their friend out of the small room in the Houses where they all were gathered together and into a far off place where no other could follow.

Merry felt Faramir's hand on his shoulder, and seeing the man's white knuckles thought perhaps the gesture was more for his own comfort than the Hobbit's.

Eomer too wrung his hands before him as though wishing this battle could be fought with swords and not patience, but as before, both healer and patient seemed to come back to the room and the lady opened her eyes.

Her soft gaze seemed surprised by so many faces to greet her, and she drew up a little as though to rise.

"Rest a while yet, lady of Rohan," Aragorn said, and her eyes were drawn to him. "Your brother has shown great restraint this day and I would repay him for his patience."

"Patience?" she said, and reached out a hand for Eomer to grasp, "this is not a quality I would have expected."

"Chide me not, Eowyn! For this has been the longest of days and I was all but lost without you."

Aragorn placed a hand on Eomer's broad shoulder solemnly, and spoke to Eowyn. "You see now before you the new King of Rohan."

Her eyes widened. "Our Uncle?"

Eomer shook his head.

She lay her head back on the pillow and looked aggrieved, but Merry thought there was relief in her face also, and some unlooked for wish fulfilled.

"How came I here?" she said after some time. Memories had perhaps come flooding back as they had with Pippin. "What of the shadow beast and those who fell beside me?"

"All is as it should be," Eomer soothed, and helped her to sit up a little higher on her pillows.

The lady's pale face lit up at the sight of the others, and rested a while on Pippin sleeping peacefully. A small smile was on the Hobbit's face, and he dreamed, no doubt, of consuming Merry's pipeweed that he had foolishly offered in the first joy of seeing his cousin awaken.

Eowyn reached out her hand and Faramir stepped forwards to take it joyously, for they had not thought to come alive together out of the shadow king's hold. There was a contented light in the lady's eyes as she rested herself back against the bed.

Merry saw that Aragorn not only leaned upon Eomer's shoulder, but that the rider was bearing much of the ranger's weight. He jumped to his feet, ready to lend aid where he might, but was unsure of how best to assist.

Gandalf entered and in seeing Aragorn weary and unsteady on his feet spoke a few quiet words to the Warden who took the man's arm and led him from the room to somewhere he could rest.

Gandalf's eyes smiled in Merry's direction. "Well master Meriadoc, of all those here you may have come the furthest upon your journey. We must speak together a little and you must tell me of Frodo at your parting..."

Merry glanced to Denethor and Eomer, and was unsure how candid he could be amid the company. After thinking carefully he said, "At the last Radagast had spoken of the path by Durthang."

Gandalf looked interested at this, and not as perturbed as Merry had feared, and Merry continued, telling more of their passing through Ithilien and their meeting with Boromir's company.

Here he paused, and looked to Faramir with a heavy feeling in his chest, for he did not like his words to bring pain. He struggled through the story and ended with his own and Boromir's return to Minas Tirith. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Denethor had turned in his seat to listen intently to the Hobbit's story.

"You have done well Merry," Gandalf said, and Merry knew the wizard did not praise without good cause. "I will worry no more tonight for Frodo and will turn instead to the city's own defence."

"Well might you praise those that follow blindly at your tail." Denethor's voice came from across the room like a chilling rain.

Out of the corner of his eye Merry saw Faramir shift slightly.

The Steward was standing now, one hand on the back of his chair. "But I know enough to perceive at this hour that to send this thing into the land of the Enemy, as you have done, and this son of mine, is madness."

"What then would have been your wisdom?" There was an edge of anger in Gandalf's tone that Merry had rarely heard there before.

"It should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used unless at the uttermost end of need. But such words are vain. Already you have forced my hand and taken my rule from under me."

"Do not be unjust in your care, Father," Faramir said, discomfited. "By your own command was the Lord Aragorn welcomed to the Houses and surely has repaid any small trust you have granted?"

"Lord?" Denethor did not seemed to have absorbed aught else in the entreaty. "Ever you have looked for some high Lord to sit in Tower Hall above your own kin. So be it. Be grateful for what Mithrandir has dredged up, and come not to me should the tower fall."

Merry caught Faramir's angry exhalation as he moved away to stand by Eomer.

"But we must come to you," Gandalf said quietly, and Merry heard the urgency in the wizard's words. "For two great armies are set to break upon the city and only by a contrivance now can we hope for any small victory."

"You speak in riddles, and I have little patience for games or talk."

"Is there not, my lord Steward, more reason for your bitter words than the fate of your son?"

"Though I would labour in healing to yet hear one word from my son, I know that our time is now short. The eyes of the white tower are not blind, Mithrandir."

"Nor even are those of the two towers, and united their strength must out way any certainty one alone may possess."

Denethor appeared to think long on this, and turned away to feel again the brow of his recovering son. "What would you have me do?"

"Bring forth the stone of Minas Tirith," Gandalf said, naming it at last. "Bring it forth and we will see what can be done to break the ties that bind the east tower to the west. Then we shall see how the armies hold to their purpose."

"So be it then, I will order it done," the Steward said. "What else have I not forfeited this day? This advantage too I shall place at your feet. Send for my chamberlain and leave me!"

"Come, friends," Gandalf said quietly, having achieved his purpose. "We will adjourn to somewhere more comfortable." He took Merry's shoulder and gently turned him towards the doors. "We will go for the present, my Lord," he said, addressing the Steward who seemed not to hear him, "but worry and grief will not defend the walls."

When Eomer made no move to leave the room, Denethor turned to him. "Her life is in the hands of fate, and you can do nothing for her. I wish to be alone."

The tone was not to be questioned, but the new King of Rohan was not to be moved. "Do what you will, sir," Eomer said steadily, "set your guards upon me, but I will stay by my sister until she is moved to her own chamber."

Faramir, leaning both hands on the bedside, appeared to fear a further scene. "Seek for a healer, Eomer," he said wearily, "I will watch over her until you return."

Eomer took a long moment in deliberation, but at last shook his head in defeat. "I charge you, brother," his wide eyes fixed on Faramir, "keep her from harm until I return."

He left, though slowly, and his steps resounded around the silent hall.

It was a long time before Denethor spoke, and when he did it was barely audible. "I would not ask you to leave," he said, "though I would be alone."

"At the least," Faramir said grimly, "allow me to recount what has been decided."

* * *

Aragorn sat alone in Tower Hall. It was a long time since he had been so, travelling long with Gimli and lately being reunited with the grey company.

Before him was the palantir of Minas Tirith, and the black orb called to him even from beneath its cloth coverings.

One of the Steward's men had brought it to him, and had eyed him suspiciously, not knowing what this strange man from the North did in the hall of kings. Nevertheless, Aragorn had thanked the man quietly, and he had gone from that place with more hope in his heart than he had entered.

Aragorn was tired beyond measure. The journey through the haunted pass, and subsequent battle had been trying, but nothing compared to what was to come. He only hoped he had enough strength for what remained.

He looked up in surprise as the door at the other end of the hall opened and Legolas stood framed in the doorway.

"I thought you might need some company." The Elf's voice echoed, but his footsteps made no sound on the white stone floor as he approached.

"There is hardly a more perilous place in the city," Aragorn said, but wished fervently for the Elf to stay.

Legolas slowly took a seat by his side, long legs stretching out before him to sit on the low steps below the dais. Aragorn noted his friend's restrained movements and wondered what wounds were still hidden from sight.

"I will stay, for no place will be safe come morning and this city is a strange and barren place. All is stone and nothing is green or flowers. When you are king, Aragorn..."

"My friend..."

"When you are king I shall help to make this city flower."

He looked back down at the palantir. "I look forward to it, but there is much to do before such things can be thought of."

Legolas was quiet then, gazing up at the great stone faces of the kings of Gondor and lending only a comforting, familiar presence.

Aragorn steadied his resolve and drew the cloth from the palantir.

Saruman would be his first target. The wizard would be assured of the power at the heart of the citadel, and the prize seemingly waiting for the taking.

From Saruman's mind Sauron would understand who in Gondor held the will and the strength to bear that which he feared most. He would see where that power dwelt and if all went to plan would empty his lands to counter that threat.

* * *

"There is little light for writing." Eomer stepped softly into the chamber holding a candle of his own. The Houses of Healing were a strange place at night, and the city itself deadly quiet.

Faramir looked up from his writing, and Eomer saw in the man's grey eyes the same weariness of care that must have shown his own. "Aye, and the candle is almost burned down, but I have but one line left to write."

"I will wait a moment then," Eomer said, "that we may walk back up to the citadel together." The new King of Rohan could not admit that he had little idea of how to find his way back through the twisting circles of the city in the dark.

He looked to the man in the bed and his brother, dark head bent over to write in the flickering light, and saw the brothers side-by-side properly for the first time; their similarities and their differences.

As Faramir folded the paper and wrote a last on the outside, setting down his quill, Eomer asked, "Of what did you write?"

"Of what is to come," the other the replied, and behind his set jaw was the same doubt that had shown there earlier that day, "and little else for there was no time to say aught but that all will not be as it seems. Lest he wake and find the streets overrun and the enemy hammering at the doors of Tower Hall, only that he might take the time to read what I have written, and not come charging to the citadel!"

Eomer gave a small smile and doubted he himself would take the time to read a letter if he woke to find the city ablaze.

"I have set his sword and shield by him nonetheless," Faramir said grimly, "for if all goes to ruin he would not be without defence." He rose stiffly and set the letter down on the side table. Taking a last look at the face of Boromir he blew out the candle, following Eomer's flame into the hall.

"There is guard enough outside the Houses," Eomer said, for he had passed them on his way in. "But I suppose if the wizard's forces are to be let to proceed to the citadel, the less show of arms here the better."

"That is my thought also," Faramir said, and his voice was less light than it had been now that they had set their steps towards the citadel. "Though it rankles to set no defence where one would order the strongest bastion."

"I did not leave my sister any words but those spoken aloud," Eomer said, regretting he had left nothing more substantial, "and not even those could express my heaviness of heart in seeing her here when I believed her far away and as safe as I could keep her."

"She is not one to be kept safe by another's hand, my friend." Faramir spoke quickly, and with fervour. "Even her brother's, and had she not taken the road to Minas Tirith I would not be here to speak of it."

"I know it well." Eomer nodded, but the heavy weight over his heart was not lifted. "I would see her smile once more, and seek more than death and glory in battle."

"I think you misjudge her in this," Faramir said, as they crossed out of the Houses into the cool night air and the darkly lit gardens. Their footsteps echoed in the paved stone streets.

"How so?"

Eomer had heard that the Steward's son had a talent in reading and understanding the hearts of men, and he wondered whether he was indeed mistaken in Eowyn's thoughts and desires.

No great battle lay at the end of Saruman's road, at least no battle where the Rohirrim would have fought with honour or for glory. In fighting for the redemption of her people and her King, who she feared had sunk beyond all honour, she was not seeking death."

"I had not thought on it this way," Eomer mused, and as they passed through the great gate of the fifth circle, they turned upon themselves and he was glad he had waited for the other to guide him.

"But you are her brother, Eomer, and you know her better than I. All I saw was kindness to aid three strangers, where one who cared less about life might have left all to perish in their own way."

"You have seen in her more than I in these last three years," Eomer said, and the fears he had been dwelling all that day rose again in his thoughts. "The shadow cast over our home by Wormtounge drove me from our doors with anger and helplessness, and I left her there alone..."

Faramir was quiet in response, and Eomer looked sidelong as they walked, his steps feeling heavy.

"She is healed now Eomer," Faramir said at last, "and we can but trust that she continues in hope at her recovery."

Eomer was troubled to hear doubt in the other's tone, and wondered whether Faramir had again gauged something he had missed. "If there is aught you suspect, my friend, speak plainly and do not hold me too fragile to be trusted with what concerns my heart most closely."

Faramir was quiet another moment, and when he did speak Eomer detected some kind of quiet desperation behind the words that gave him much pause for thought.

"It is not my place to speak of the hearts of others or to gauge the strength of feeling therein, but I will say this much. It seemed to me that in Aragorn your sister encountered the possibility of a new life, and that high hopes may be more disappointment than physcal healing could easily restore."

Eomer narrowed his eyes at this, but he did not trust his own judgement enough to contradict it. Aragorn had brought hope to Edoras, and in him the magnificence of the Kings of Old had walked amid their people for a time. But Eomer considered all he had seen since, and his sister's wakening that very day, and wondered whether in this case he might hold more insight than his companion.

His distress for Eowyn quietened then, for if they lived through this night, the day that followed might be brighter for all that had come before.

"Goodnight _brother_ ," he said pointedly, and saw a start of surprise in the other's eyes as they parted.


	39. Only silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

Aragorn's eyes were red with long nights and days without rest. The hilt of Anduril rested steadily across his knees as he sat upon the bottom step of the dais, legs outstretched and eyes closed.

He wished not for the first time that Gandalf might have been here with them. But he knew their small representative number had been wise. How else would Saruman believe that all their strength and hope was already spent?

Aragorn had suggested Legolas follow Gimli to the walls and lend his strength to the defences, but had had little hope that his friend would do so. Now there were just the four of them: The new king of Rohan, the son of the steward, Legolas and himself.

"It will not be long." Legolas spoke softly from where he leant against the tall marble figure of an ancient king.

"By now the cavalry will have been driven aside from the gates and Imrahil will be giving the order to retreat." Aragorn heard Faramir turn away and opened his eyes to see the young man's white knuckled fingers clenched together behind him as he paced.

There was a long silence in which the steps echoed around the large hall before Legolas spoke out, "Your infernal pacing could drive Sauron himself to distraction!"

Aragorn looked up at the unexpected remark, thinking the pressure was finally taking its toll. To his surprise Legolas' severity was marred by the upturned corner of his mouth - and Faramir's eyebrows were raised in return. He realised that some old jest had been shared.

Faramir stopped walking and slumped down on the step next to Aragorn. "Open your own city to the enemy and tell me then whether nerves are understandable." "The gate would have fallen however many brave men had given their lives to defend it," Aragorn assured him. "Better that those lives have been spared, though they may question the sanity of their captains. I believe, however, that they will follow Mithrandir a while yet. Remember that Saruman is cunning and does not need to rely on brute force to have his way."

"How could I forget?" Faramir unconsciously rubbed the place where Saruman had burnt into his arm.

Eomer took to his feet, having sat disconcertingly still for a time as though preparing his thoughts for battle. "And where now lies the stone which inspired this madness?"

Aragorn heard in the rider's voice something of the same suspicion he had encountered amid the Rohirrim.

"It is once more in the hands of the Steward," Aragorn said, but did not look up to meet Faramir's gaze. He felt sure the other would have given much to see that stone as far from the citadel as possible. "Let us hope that Sauron too has enough mistrust of his servant to believe he could be betrayed."

Saruman brought with him some type of devilish fire," Eomer said, his brows drawn together. Aragorn recalled the sound as the explosive was unleashed. "And with it at the last they took the great gate."

"The swan knights hold the third and forth," Faramir said, his brow furrowed also. "They will fight only long enough for appearances to hold."

Eomer and Faramir shared a look, and Aragorn knew they both thought of those dear to them in the fifth circle of the city. What had been done was done, and they could only see this through now and see what remained if they survived.

"Saruman is no fool. He will suspect that we are allowing him access to the citadel for a purpose." Legolas was watching his companions carefully, willing to trust their judgement but fearful all the same. "He will become suspicious and realise that it is a trap."

"He is arrogant, and thinks us weak and leaderless. Blinded by his desire for the ring, and believing it to be guarded at the city's strongest point, I do not believe he will realise his danger before it is too late."

"Until Sauron too has emptied his lands upon us."

Legolas stood suddenly and seemed to be listening. Almost at once the sound of drums echoed through the hall. The enemy had broken through to the citadel.

* * *

 

Horns called Boromir forth from his long slumber. Strange to the ear and carried on the wind they broke into his dreams and after long weeks he awoke, confused.

The small darkened room where he lay under clean sheets held no other person he could question has to where he was or how he had come there. The muffled sounds outside disorientated him further.

Surely he was in the Houses! The glint of green shining through the corner of the window, perhaps the gardens, made him surer of it. It was very early morning, and as he listened could not mistake it... the sounds of battle were clearer now to his ears.

Swinging his long disused legs out of bed he lent heavily, peering through the crack in the shutters to indeed reveal the gardens of the Houses, and smoke plumbing up from the streets. The sounds of men and horses and hundreds of metal shod feet.

Beside the bedside table greeting his searching gaze was his own sword and shield, and twisting he found a pile of extra clothing, not his own armour, but functional enough.

Even if he could not quite remember how he had come to be here it was clear that some enemy had breached the walls and that he was needed!

Wrenching the leather jerkin over his thin white bed-shirt sent a spike of agony running up his side and into his chest like a fire had burned along his flesh. Gasping for breath as the pain eased he felt gingerly around his left side, clean bandages bound tight about his chest giving some indication that his stay here in the houses had been longer than a few mere days.

He bent to pull on boots. He was ready. It did not matter what he was to find upon leaving the houses now, he would face it prepared.

A sheet of a parchment on the side table caught his eye as he took up his sword and shield. His initials were scrawled upon it, and he hesitated a moment, but then thought better of it and moved quickly to the door. There would be time for reading later.

"He said you would not take the time to read it."

Boromir looked down to where the voice originated and saw to his great surprise a halfling, dressed as he was in small statured armour and armed with a short sword. The halfling had one hand on his hip and seemed to be waiting.

Memories suddenly sprang bright and clear into his mind. The pain of spear and blood, the Haradrim and his fallen comrades.

"Merry," he said, the name sounding right despite all the delirium between the time he had first heard the name and their current meeting.

In the dark passageway the Hobbit nodded, passed by him into the room and took up the letter, holding it out expectantly.

Boromir frowned, wondering why it seemed to him that to follow this halfling's advice was the wisest course of action .

"Very well," he said, resigned, resting shield against the wall, "A moment longer will make no difference." His body itched to flee the houses and find out what was happening to the city, but it seemed the Hobbit was not going to move out of his way. He unfolded the paper, fingers finding the fiddly task difficult after so long inactive.

_Dearest brother,_

_If you have taken the time to read this know first that it is no simple siege that breaks upon the gates of the city._

_There is no time for explanations here, ask Merry to understand more, but above all else, come not to the citadel. Plans are in motion and one false step may shake the smallest of chances upon which all our hopes are now pinned._

_If you have woken to find the city under siege, and I know well that you would not lie idle, turn instead to the lower gates and seek out our Uncle or Mithrandir._   
_A sorry awakening with no friendly face to greet you save one brave Hobbit who has risked much for your sake._

_Pray for once heed my judgement and may we both come through this night/day unscathed for a reunion long awaited!_

_Faramir_

Boromir wrinkled his nose at the request to heed his brother's judgement but felt a calm settle over his strained nerves. Faramir was well and had returned to the city!

"Do not tell me Merry," he said, tucking the letter away in his breast and retrieving his shield, "that I lie injured for one week and they decide to open the gates to the enemy?"

Merry's mouth twisted, "It was far longer than a week, my lord, but yes... we are letting them in."

* * *

 

The last arrow sprang from Aragorn's bow even as the white wizard followed his creatures into the hall. Sparing no time for the now useless weapon he cast it aside, drawing instead the Rohirric steel blade he had chosen in place of Anduril.

Avoiding being skewered by the Uruks' scimitars now that they had closed in for close combat was more difficult than he had anticipated. He lost sight of the wizard in the fray.

To Saruman perhaps it made little difference whether they were taken alive. Corpses could be more easily searched. But their small number had been chosen to reflect no more than those he would not slay immediately without some pause. Aragorn spared a thought for Gandalf's encouraging words at their parting, and again wished his old friend could be here with them at this last.

Aragorn fought viciously at first, slicing through the orcs until corpses ringed his feet and a choking stench filled the hall of the kings that had hours before housed Theoden's reverent laying out.

After a time he feigned a mistake of the kind a battle-wearied soldier might make, allowing the orcs to throw him off balance and recovering himself with difficulty. As he did so he threw a glance to his companions to see how they fared.

Legolas fought nearest and showed no sign of tiring, long knives slicing through orc flesh with seemingly little effort. His jaw was clenched, however, and his eyes dark. Aragorn thought perhaps it had been too hard a request to ask his friend to lay down pride and feign weakness, allowing Saruman to once again close a cage around them.

He could not see Eomer or Faramir amid the orc bodies crowding the hall, but he could hear the sounds of combat so hoped they were holding their own.

Drawn back to the battle at hand, Aragorn allowed another orc to gain the upper hand, merely knocking away its heavy iron halberd where he might have easily skewered the beast.

Saruman's sharp features came into view again. The wizard was taking no role in the fighting, and Aragorn was disturbed to see eyes locked upon himself.

Aragorn faltered in reality then, the calculating malice behind the gaze shaking his confidence. In his moment of distraction, the orc's halberd drove hard into the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees. He gritted his teeth at the impact to his legs, but regained enough sense to let his fingers loosen so that his blade might be struck from his grasp.

He then found himself crushed to the white floor stones with the iron pressing down on his neck and a metal shot foot in his back. As he gestured his surrender he heard the sounds of steel and battle around him slowly diminish, trusting all now to chance and their faith in Frodo.

Saruman's voice emerged out of the new quiet. "Not for the lives of thousands, you claimed, would the gates of your city open to my army, yet it is as though I have been invited..."

Aragorn's sweat-dampened hair obscured his vision as the cold pressure on his neck eased slightly. He could not yet see whether Saruman's derision meant he had discovered their ploy.

Aragorn recognised Faramir's reply, low and bitter, "Much has changed since I last walked the halls of my fathers."

"So it would seem. And where now lurks the Steward of the city?"

Saruman's attention turned to Aragorn as the ranger gingerly raised himself up, seeing his three friends now disarmed and restrained by many orcs. He was reassured they had all survived, but the back of his own head ached and his ears rung as he sought to focus on Saruman's continuing mockery.

"The Steward comes and goes at his own will," he said through gritted teeth.

"Does he indeed? That is well, for I would not have interrupted your bid for the throne."

"Gondor has long awaited her true king," Legolas said with blazing eyes, unable to hold his silence.

"Aragorn entered the citadel by the grace of the Stewards," Faramir fervently added.

Aragorn burned inside to see the ardour of his friends' faith, but was afraid.

Saruman's eyes narrowed, but he made to move to check their words, seemingly still cautious of Aragorn's potential.

"I allowed time enough to present a challenge," he continued quietly, "yet even Mithrandir failed to muster any kind of defence; the gates torn down, his commands ignored as men and boys fled the walls like rats."

All had gone well, Aragorn rejoiced to hear it. He knew the pride of his people - and knew that no Gondorian would turn from battle with only orcs to withstand them if his the city were under siege, unless ordered to do so.

"You have proved less of a King than even I thought you to be," Saruman sneered at Aragorn who said nothing in reply. No orcs had moved to restrain him and he felt the insult in that also. "Hiding away as your city is burning. But perhaps you seek to preserve something more precious than your own worthless skin?"

Aragorn schooled his features. "You were foolish to enter the city." Into the short words he poured all the menace and warning he could muster.

Saruman did not seem perturbed by the tone, and in fact seemed almost more sure of his own cause. "It is little wonder the halfling turned over this burden to one who seemed kingly and high, a mercy that I was here to proffer the hand of friendship before the dark lord himself came to take back what was his. It is pity that moved my incursion, pity for one inexperienced in wielding a power so great as that which has been thrust upon you."

Argorn felt the full onslaught of the wizard's ascendant words and struggled to hold onto his fleeing resolve.

"A guiding hand," the wizard continued, "words of wisdom if you will accept them."

Even Aragorn, who had gazed into the seeing stone and grappled with the will of Sauron himself, felt the pull of these words.

He moved his hand to his chest, as he had seen Frodo do on occasion, as though silently seeking reassurance from a hidden source of power.

The wizard's smile widened, and Aragorn's heart began to beat faster, but he maintained his deadly silence, making no sign that he would either bring forth the weapon of the enemy, or consider Saruman's offer.

At some silent command an orc slammed the hilt of its weapon into the side of Legolas' head, the force of the blow sending the Elf almost the ground before the orcs pulled him up again.

Aragorn could not help but flinch, the suddenness of the violence and the swinging shifts in the wizard's countenance rapidly undoing his resolve.

"Repayment for an old debt," Saruman explained, watching Aragorn carefully and sparing no look for the Elf. "Consider it a small mercy I do not light a fire in his flesh to better repay the inconvenience wrought upon me."

Ai what madness had come over him to allow his friends to place themselves once again in the power of the wizard? Had he faced this alone it may have been an easier trial. He had known it would come to this and had thought he could ensure it, for the sake of keeping all eyes removed from Frodo's task, but in the face of the wizard's apathetic cruelty it seemed a hard and thankless end.

"Very little patience I have for those without the wisdom to take what little help I offer," Saruman was saying, watching him carefully.

Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn could see the orcs that held Legolas twisting his arms against a back still raw from Saruman's previous cruelty. The Elf made no sound, which in Aragorn's mind wounded him further for his friend was not one to hold his tongue against provocation unless in the greatest of need. Your companions have suffered enough to know that I do not do aught without a purpose,"

Without moving his eyes from Aragorn, the Istar addressed his words to Faramir. "I believe you began to understand me, son of Denethor, by the end of our journey. Tell your King that the life of one Elf, of a thousand men means nothing to me."

Though he seemed to tremble, with anger or fatigue, the young man kept his silence also. He was beaten down as Legolas before him and seemed no longer to be able bear his own weight, for he sagged in the arms that held him.

"I can have you watch as each one of your people is torn to pieces. Not all will bear your betrayal as stoically as these. They will scream for their false King's mercy. Spare them that, for in the end I shall have what I came for."


	40. Too long in fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

Gimli looked up to his work and brushed his hands upon dusty knees. The second gate stood tall and strong once more. Only an hour before it had been blasted stone and rubble.

He shook his head as the wearied men cleared the remainder of the supplies away from the archway. To think that before long this gate too would be again destroyed! But better the enemy should rage against wood and stone than against the people of Gondor, as Aragorn had said. Aragorn had not been the one to restore the gate!

"Gimli!"

A familiar voice reached him out of the smoke and ruins of the third circle, and he squinted into the shifting whiteness. "Who calls?"

"It is I, Merry."

The Hobbit appeared, hale and determined, but moving with nervous swiftness toward him. By his side walked a man Gimli had only seen in the depth of fever at the Houses of Healing. Now that he was upright once more, his rugged appearance and large sword rather overawed the dwarf.

"Gimli, this is..."

"No need for introductions," Gimli interrupted Merry's no doubt detailed explanation. He reached out and grasped Boromir's wrist stoutly. "I have just rebuilt your gate Captain, what do you think of it?"

The man seemed somewhat dazed, but he looked to Gimli's work and seemed impressed. "Very fine, but..."

"I was under the impression," Gimli interjected again, "that you were expected to go storming up to the citadel."

Merry gave Gimli a very disapproving look, and Boromir shook his head.

"Is this not my city?" he asked, his attention distracted from Gimli and Merry as he shifted his gaze to the tower. "Am I not free to go wherever I will? Hobbits and Dwarfs – where are all the men of the guard? I have believed your tale thus far, Merry, for the debt I owe you, but how am I to wait and watch while the upper levels crawl with orcs?"

"The waiting will not endure," Gimli said darkly, feeling pity for this man and no longer speaking jovially. "Sauron's force approaches, it will not be long before these gates will tremble again under hammer and fire.

"Madness," Gimli heard the man mutter.

* * *

_"I can have you watch as each one of your people is torn to pieces. Not all will bear your betrayal as stoically as these. They will scream for their false King's mercy. Spare them that, for in the end I shall have what I came for." ..._

Aragorn bore this last stoically, but was sure he must have paled, for he felt light headed and sickness threatened to overturn his stomach. He did not understand how the Istar's words could wreak such confusion and fear on his ever keen senses.

Saruman seemed reluctant, however, to forcibly search Aragorn for that which he believed to be concealed. Perhaps rumours of the ring's abilities had reached the wizard. Even the ability to become invisible at this precarious moment could undo all if he were to impel Aragorn into such an act.

"Strange things too I have seen since we parted," Saruman said, returning to his soft tones.

Aragorn grew still more uneasy. Perhaps he had given away more than he intended in attempting to influence the seeing stone. He eyed the Istar's staff wearily too, for though it seemed only a carven prop, it appeared to pulse and thrum at the side of his vision.

"A pretty thorn in my side from Meduseld to Gondor."

Faramir's almost imperceptible intake of breath did not escape the wizard's notice, and he turned swiftly. "So much futile endurance and concealment," he touched the young man's face with feigned good humour. Faramir paled immediately at the touch, as though nauseated, "but what man would not lay down his life for such a one... in the hope that she might lie down in her turn..." Faramir turned his head away from the wizard's fingers, and Aragorn thought he saw true rather than feigned distress at the words.

Eomer's ireful sound at the slight to his sister broke their joint silence and drew the wizard's attention. Saruman moved to where the rider was being held pinioned on his knees, with his head barely above the ground. Even as tightly as he was being held, the man's great strength almost threw the orcs off balance as he struggled.

"It is a pity Grima did not live out the road to Minas Tirith. A handsome consort for the lady of Rohan... "

Eomer spat blood onto wizard's white robed feet and immediately shrank back as Saruman's long fingered hand brushed his skin also. He shuddered, head shaking as if to throw off some unpleasant dream, and his struggles lessened.

"And where is the lady now? I would repay her for her trouble."

"You shall not touch her."

"Even the greatest of kings were impotent in the face of the shadow in the East, and the kings of this age are as children playing on sandcastles." Saruman's focus slid to the far side of the hall where Theoden's body was laid out in honour, and his eyes became bright with some further malice.

"Stop this," Aragorn said at last, and the orcs who had been muttering excitedly quietened and focused upon him. He could not take his eyes from the blood that was dripping from Legolas' mouth onto the white stones, and the dread in Eomer's gaze lest the wizard wreak some desecration on the body of his Uncle.

There was a long silence in which Aragorn's own heavy breathing seemed to fill the void. The ringing in his ears had risen to a shriek. They had needed to play this right, to make Saruman believe beyond all doubt that they were at their last throw, but his own conviction was now teetering.

Saruman seemed to read this from his countenance, and narrowed his eyes, boring into Aragorn's mind. For a wild moment Aragorn thought his deception had been discovered.

"So you will not willingly give me this thing?" Saruman asked, and there was no patience or amusement remaining in his words.

This was the very moment Aragorn had been waiting for, but before he could take the chance the wizard's knuckles had clenched white about his staff and Aragorn's head was consumed with heat and pain.

"Then, at this last, know what it is to rule with the ring of power!"

Dropping to one knee in an effort to stay conscious he pressed his palms against the cold floor, but Saruman's voice continued to batter him without reprieve.

"No councillors, only slaves. No comrades in arms..."

Legolas' stifled cry broke into Aragorn's red-tinged world and he clenched his teeth, tearing his eyes open a crack in an attempt to see what was happening to his friend.

"...only minions dispatched to die," Saruman continued relentlessly. "No steward to hold your throne..."

Through half-closed eyes Aragorn saw the wizard draw a narrow blade and instead of turning it upon Aragorn as he had anticipated, drove it into Faramir's side, stopping short after entry so that the young man only stiffened in shock. Aragorn clenched his eyes shut, but the darkness was no comfort.

"Only silence."

The pain in his head eased as though it had never been. Aragorn knelt where he was, frozen. He had delayed too long and missed their chance! All was lost.

"If you have this thing," Saruman voice came to him, "which I am now not so sure you do, you have shown you will never choose to wield it."

He opened his eyes, looked quickly to Legolas and saw the Elf kneeling now too, gasping for breath, neck and fingers red with blood where he had sought to tear away strangling hands. He saw Faramir's face, drained of colour, still lest Saruman drive the knife deeper.

The starkness of the scene without the haze of his own pain, the crudeness of a knife in the hands of a wizard of bountiful power, only further damned his situation. If he really held the ring of power surely now he would not hesitate to act.

The soft sound of a step behind him almost froze his blood, yet the sight of the Steward entering the hall set his heart pounding once more.

Saruman watched Denethor enter, and Aragorn saw the saw surprise reflected in the others' eyes that must have been in his own. He made no sign to direct the orcs to restrain the old man.

Outside his confusion and fear Aragorn's ears caught the sound of horns faintly in the city below. They were no Rohirric horns, yet Saruman didn't seem to hear the sound.

Denethor, whose body seemed to tremble as he brushed passed him, looked Aragorn hard in the face. "All is over... give him the ring."

Aragorn heard Eomer's sharp intake of breath and a slight noise from Faramir as Saruman shifted the knife, but Aragorn could only feel his own heart beat rapidly as he shifted his hand to the inside of his cloak, closing it over the precious object.

"You know I cannot," he said. His eyes met Denethor's, so similar to his own, and knew that for the first time he was acknowledged as an equal.

The Steward's hand was shaking violently as he reached for Aragorn and feigned a search for the ring. "This is not your decision to make," Denethor said, for the benefit of Saruman, and Aragorn thought, his own. His voice was deep with emotion as he spoke. "I have lost one son and will not lose another."

Aragorn relaxed, palms outward feigning defeat, and giving Denethor easy access to draw out the ring and hold it up to the wizard.

"We waited in fear too long," the Steward murmured, "and now all is lost."

Saruman's eyes seemed captured by the golden band, all doubts washed away by the conflict played out between the two rivals. The orcs, too, shifted uncomfortably, muttering amid themselves and shrinking back slightly. The ring was so similar, Aragorn thought, to the One. Hi dipped his own head to hide the eagerness in his own gaze. Only fire would tell the truth of their deception and by then it would be too late.

"Give me back my son," Denethor was saying, but Saruman, having seen his prize surrendered, had no further patience for careful words. Moving faster than sight he lunged forward to snatch the golden chain from Denethor's outstretched hand.

While his heart lurched with horror, Aragorn remembered his part and turned to retrieve Anduril from beside the dais.

Legolas, who had freed himself now the deception was safely achieved, lunged forwards, but too late as Saruman drove the already bloody knife into Dethethor's chest, cruelly holding the old man's hand in his as the blood soaked through his fine clothes and the body slipped to the ground.

Reeling back as Saruman turned, Legolas skirted the wizard in time to catch Faramir as he slipped to his knees in a pool of his own and his father's blood. Aragorn saw the Elf's hands trembling in earnest as he pressed against the young man's side, as Faramir's gaze, almost frightfully calm now, watched Saruman's hand that now held the ring.

Wrenching his eyes from Legolas', Aragorn looked also towards the ring with what he hoped looked like true fear, keeping Anduril hidden.

Also freed, with the orcs scampering backwards to the outer edges of the hall, Eomer had crawled over to where the Steward lay jerking in his last breaths.

All scruples lost, Saruman looked down on them and laughed silently, and made to place the ring on his finger. There was no need for words.

The Istar's cry tore at Aragorn's sanity, as though something was being ripped from his own body. A grey mist had taken hold of the wizard's form as the ring that had once adorned the King of Angmar's hand claimed its new host. Saruman realised his mistake too late, for the will of Sauron was already at work in him, and soon he would become merely a servant of the master he had hoped to supplant.

Aragorn knew he must strike now lest the moment of weakness they had all given their blood to reveal passed. The ring of the King of Angmar was not deadly in itself, and only by Sauron's exerted will and Saruman's betrayal might this opportunity be open to them. Lifting the blade he staggered to his feet and drove it into the Istar's throat. The head was thrown back in a scream so terrible that Aragorn swung again and sliced through the body.

His third strike was with the flat of his blade, tearing the wizards staff from his grasp and flinging it across the floor. But the flaring light from its tip had warned him too late what was to come, and he only had time to turn his face away before the blast tore into the walls.

* * *

Merry pressed himself closer to the stone wall, feeling himself shaking as the sounds of battle grew further from their position. Gimli's heavy breath was hot upon the back of his neck as the dwarf peered around him to gain a view of the street.

Upon reaching the second gate they had had little time to ponder what action to take. Sauron's force had battered apart the recently repaired great gate with their great siege engine, and the second gate was soon under contention. A great swathe of Saruman's force had swarmed down from the upper levels to now defend the very city they had overrun.

Orc slaughtered orc, the streets were choked with the dead, and the stones underfoot had become a river of blood.

Merry shrank back between Boromir and Gimli as another wave of Sauron's force passed the alleyway in which they hid. Merry saw Boromir rest his head back against the stone wall as they passed and saw too the horror in his eyes at the plight of the city. For he who had only awoken that day it must have seemed more like the nightmare of a fevered mind than reality.

But, Merry thought, beyond the horror of it all, there was relief too. In the armies' eagerness to penetrate and defend the citadel, the people of Minas Tirith were being passed over. Beyond the initial show of arms Sauron and Saruman's forces had largely been concerned with destroying each other.

"No sign of the winged beasts," Gimli hissed. "That is well for I do not know if I could stand my ground were they to enter the city."

Merry agreed, but knew it to be a selfish thought. Their whole aim in this endeavour had been to draw Sauron's eye furthest as possible from where Frodo might even now be climbing the slopes of the fire mountain. All was darkness in the East.

"We have waited long enough," Boromir said, and his voice was ragged, "any attempt at deception must have been played out by now."

Without thinking Merry grabbed hold of the Captain's wrist as he made to move out into the open. "Where are you going?"

"To the citadel. It is beyond me to wait with patience any longer Merry."

Gimli looked up to the Tower, and to the courtyard and hall where they knew their friends to be. "Aye," he said, "I too have no more mind to wait. Let us carve our way back up to the higher levels!"

They moved off, Merry looking ever over his shoulder for more bands of orcs or worse, silent things that might be following. He could hear the horns of the Rohirrim on the field before the city, and even thought he saw, as he looked over his shoulder, the great lumbering figures of rumoured Mumakil far in the distance.

To avoid great legions of orcs Boromir led them through many winding alleys and several underground shortcuts that shortened their journey, but even so Gimli's axe was heavy with black blood by the time they passed the fifth gate. Merry had struck out at many foes also, and his wrist felt numb from the tightness with which he gripped his short sword.

"This might be the end of our journey," Gimli said grimly as hearing the roar of combat they surveyed the next level. The heart of the battle had taken place here at the sixth gate. The bodies of orcs marked with the white hand and the red eye, and men of Gondor too, filled the space, and the battle raged on over them.

Merry's heart sank, there was no way they could make their way past this blockade.

A great light seemed suddenly to pierce Merry's vision and they looked as one up to the base of the tower, where the light sprang forth from high windows. The orcs paused in their savagery to look too, hesitant and fearful.

The blast that followed both blinded and deafened Merry for several moments, and he found himself upon the ground not having remembered falling. Smoke plumbed above them and gazing up he saw the windows of the hall destroyed and the walls black. He heard his companions' cries of horror.

In their own panic they did not see the other great fire storm rising up into the sky in the East, did not hear sounds of battle ceasing on the Pelenor as orc and man of the west paused alike, and did not think of Frodo and Sam until it was too late.


	41. By the grace of the Steward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this tale was written over many years, starting from a young age. The style and complexity changed throughout and in order to provide a more consistent narrative, chapters 2-14 have been removed from this version. The missing chapters are available at Stories of Arda if anyone wants to chase them up - but they do not add much to the tale. Happy reading :)

He dreamt of eagles.

In the East the sky was clear and a light breeze rose, as though stirred by the heavy beat of wings.

The bed sheets, when he became aware of them, were cool and soft. Faramir rubbed them between his fingers briefly, feeling soreness in the muscles of his arm as he did so and running his thoughts back beyond waking.

His hand went immediately to his side, feeling there for a wound but finding only thick bandages.

A noise made him aware that he was not alone, and he squinted into the sunlight streaming through the window.

Another figure lay on the other bed in the room, reading a document. Faramir could not see the man's face over the parchment, but the sighs that punctuated the reading were familiar. Despite his elation, it took several moments to speak for it felt as though he had inhaled all the smoke and ashes thrown out by Saruman's parting gift.

"Is it the letters or the pictures that trouble you?" he managed somewhat hoarsely.

Boromir's wonderfully familiar eyebrows appeared over the top of the paper, followed by eyes dark with feigned anger. "I would forgive you that, so glad I am to see you awake at last, if this paperwork was not your fault!"

His brother rolled himself off the bed, for he had been merely lying atop the sheets, and battered Faramir with a fond embrace.

"Do you know how many hours I have been patiently waiting here for you to awake when there are important decisions I should be making?" he asked.

Faramir considered, marking identical bandages to his own through Boromir's thin white shirt, and the lack of any other clothing in the room. "You are confined to the Houses too then?"

"They have taken my clothes, Faramir! My boots, my sword..."

Boromir bore many more cuts and bruises to his arms and face than when Faramir had parted from him the night before. He narrowed his eyes. "Despite you staying safe within the houses throughout the battle?"

"Bah," Boromir said, "You did not expect that of me else you would not have left my sword. But now what can I do? I cannot walk through the streets in just a shirt..."

"People might think you a ghost," Faramir said, and his mind drifted disconcertingly. He shook his head. "I did not think to see you standing here before me at his hour."

"It is no dream," Boromir replied, more serious now, sitting down upon the bed and meeting his gaze keenly. "Many things have passed this day but I am one lucky enough to come through it."

"The quest!" Faramir exclaimed suddenly, wondering how it could have taken him more than a moment to ask. "What of the quest?"

"Those keen wits have become dull indeed," Boromir teased, "does this look like Barad-dûr?"

Faramir slumped back against the bed, feeling the sunlight, hearing now the soft noises of busy people drifting in through the open window. "And Frodo and Sam?"

"I'm sure they will be able to tell you their story themselves, though I have not yet heard it myself, confined to this cell."

"And father?" Faramir asked it, though he knew the answer.

Boromir's jaw clenched, and he did not reply.

Faramir sought to sit up, propping himself against the bed head. "Did they tell you..?"

"They did," Boromir nodded, and his softening eyes told Faramir they had not be unjust in the retelling.

They were quiet then, listening to the noises outside. It sounded as though many of the soldiers would rather have tested their full strength against the invading forces than clean the resulting carnage from the streets.

"There will be much to tell," Boromir said at last, fingering the corner of the paper beside him and tearing it slightly.

Noise in the corridor interrupted their reflections and the room was suddenly alive with friendly voices and Hobbit shaped visitors.

"I told you," the first said.

"And I agreed," the second followed.

They seemed only to notice they had reached their destination when they had settled themselves on the ends of the beds, propping up their hairy feet, and looking around expectantly.

"There is two of them," Boromir said with flatly, his expression bemused.

"Pippin, son of Paladin," the Hobbit said, looking around and bouncing up and down slightly on Faramir's bed.

Merry, who had taken his place on the end of Boromir's, looked as though he was holding something back.

"So," Pippin began, examining the empty plate on the table by Boromir's bed with beady eyes, "we had an idea, that as the most important," he stressed the word, "Captains in the city, you could order some vittles for two hungry Hobbits..."

Merry coughed, as though the request had been too trivial to ask. "If it wasn't," he added, "too much trouble."

Boromir laughed deeply.

Faramir shook his head "Where is Aragorn?"

"He is too busy to bother with two hungry Hobbits."

"So you have not yet breakfasted?" Boromir asked.

"We've had one, yes," Merry said, and Pippin shot him a look.

* * *

In a sunlit room looking down upon the city a small hobbit looked down at his hands.

Sam did not yet truly believe the bright sun and cheerful room which he and Frodo shared. Not for the first time that week, he looked to the bed beside him to check Frodo still slept soundly.

His master's pale and drained appearance was not the only indication of their toils, and the white bandage around Frodo's hand still drew Sam's eyes, inspiring all the guilt his own weariness could afford.

He clenched his own hand into a fist, remembering the tearing sensation and Frodo's anguish when Sam had been forced to… had chosen to... strike out rather than allow their quest to be vain. It had been the right decision, he knew it well enough, and tiptoeing to the window and seeing the people of Gondor happy in their restored freedom confirmed it.

A cloud passed over the sun, shadowing the gardens below, and for a moment Sam saw again the tall figure of Radagast against a red sky, Nazgul and Eagles locked in combat above. He did not think he would ever forget the sight, and knew that when he returned to the Shire, when all was well once more, he would wake in the night to the cries of the Nazgul over Mt Doom.

But he had brought Frodo out of the fire. Perhaps that was all that mattered.

* * *

Legolas stretched his long legs and leaned his head back against the soft grass. Although he had not been of much use in the tasks that needed doing this day, he still relished this first moment of peace.

The smoke from Aragorn and Gimli's pipes drifted overhead, and passed out over the garden wall. The sky in the East was not dark, and a soft pink shone there, over the ruins of Barad-dûr and the fire mountain.

"This is the first moment I've rested my legs in many days," Gimli said contentedly.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "While we were being hauled about by orcs you were feasting in the King's tent."

"I am not yet a King," Aragorn reminded them, speaking around the pipe in his mouth.

"I saw Frodo and Sam this morning," Gimli said. "They are looking much more like themselves after food and rest, but they are not quite willing to leave the comfort of their beds just yet."

Aragorn nodded. "Minas Tirith will require many repairs and the death count was high, though it might have been far higher. Let them wait in comfort while the city is renewed."

"That Radagast is a strange one," Gimli said. "He is even now closeted with Gandalf as they discuss their wizardish plans."

"I may have had quite enough of wizards for one journey," Legolas mused, not allowing himself to think too much on the previous days, "but Radagast is known to me. He dwells near to my own people, but he keeps to himself."

Legolas felt vibrations beneath him and opened one eye to see two dark-haired figures making their way across the gardens, one walking with a slight limp.

He drew himself up off the ground as they approached. It was strange to have spent so long in the company of one brother, and to know very little of the other. Today both were wearing sable cloaks and with their dark hair and grey eyes looked more alike than Legolas had seen.

He felt a stirring of unease at their formal appearance, and wondered whether the time had come to discuss the matter of Aragorn's kingship.

Faramir appeared so eager to see them, however, that Legolas' concerns were put aside for a moment. He gladly embraced the man, realising it had been strange to be apart after all they had endured together.

"How are you, my friend?" Faramir asked, eyeing the bandages spiralling up Legolas' arm.

"A little uncoordinated," Legolas returned easily. "You shall not find me testing my bow against Gimli's axe for some weeks."

"Do you know how many times I re-built your gates?" Gimli interrupted. "And this brother of yours," the Dwarf shook his head, "dragged us through all the alleyways and tunnels in this maze of a city."

"Good to see you again, master Dwarf," Boromir said, seeming a little ruffled by the familiar company and Gimli's manner.

"Aye, good indeed," Gimli nodded, softening his tone and looking fondly around at everyone gathered together again.

Legolas saw that Faramir looked a little tense now, eyeing Aragorn as he grasped Boromir's forearm in greeting. The Elf could hear the man's heavy breaths through his nose and could not help but notice the firmness of the grasp on both sides.

"Gondor owes you much, it seems," Boromir said after a small silence.

"There is no debt," Aragorn replied readily. "Forgive me for not staying longer at the houses when we first met."

"It is of no concern. The healers have set us free now, and we have been to Rath Dínen."

Both brothers seemed subdued by the memory, and Aragorn murmured his respects with feeling.

A quiet followed, and Gimli lifted himself to his feet. "Time for me to seek out some dinner," the Dwarf said, eyeing Legolas as though expecting the Elf to follow.

Legolas stayed where he was, wanting to hear the outcome of this discussion. Gimli frowned at him before taking his leave.

The unspoken question was in the air between them, and Legolas let his breath escape as Aragorn voiced it.

"Long ago," Aragorn said, "I promised your brother that if ever I entered the city, it would be by the will of the people and the grace of the Steward. I did enter it, upon you father's bidding and for your sake. Now you are Steward, and it is between us to decide the course of the future. I would know your mind."

Boromir turned, and paced a little. "I have met with the council, and despite all you have done they would not have me step aside."

"Brother..." Faramir's voice was low.

Boromir shook his head."Nay Faramir, I would be foolish to disregard advice without consideration."

Faramir's lips were pressed together, holding back a response, but after glancing to Aragorn he spoke again. "I do not question their loyalty, only that they are father's chosen, and that you yourself may have selected others to advise you."

"Much has changed in the last months. You were not here while we weathered the attacks from the East and South, ever increasing..." Boromir's eyes were dark at the recollection, and Legolas noted the muscles in his sword arm tighten.

Faramir paused, and seemed to consider carefully before speaking. "I was not here, but neither were you at the very end, and from what I have seen and read all was not well in the last days. It was not only father's mind that weakened beneath the shadow..."

"Do not speak ill of him, not now..."

"I do not, I only advise against accepting council that has already proved ineffective. What says our Uncle?"

Boromir paused and took a breath. "Imrahil bids me listen to council I trust, and do what I think is right."

Legolas watched the man carefully, taking in his pale face, but also his set jaw. Holding his own thoughts from spilling forth was difficult. After all they had come through to stand here in Tower of Guard, and at this late hour another battle could face them for Aragorn's right to rule.

"Do not make any decision now," Aragorn said softly, seeing also the palour of the new Steward's face. "Listen to your Uncle who has proven himself the truest of men, and seek wisdom from those you alone trust. If it eases your decision, know too that my own faith in the house of the Stewards cannot be diminished."

Something in Aragorn's words touched the Boromir, Legolas sensed, though he showed little sign and only looked over the walls, towards the sea.

"Stay here a while with your companions, Faramir," he said after some time, turning back to face them. His eyes seemed weary now. "I shall think alone for a time."

Faramir's expression was troubled as they watched Boromir walk back towards the tower, his limp more pronounced than previously.

"You look alike," Legolas said to fill the silence, "but are not so alike in temperament I think."

"It is difficult for him," Faramir said. "He does not know Aragorn as we do, and it is a great deal of trust to place in a stranger. Whatever decision he makes, he must feel that he has done right by the people."

"I believe he will," Aragorn said, and returned his pipe to his lips.

"You wait so patiently," Legolas said, watching smoke rings coil, "do you not yearn to send word to Arwen?"

"Arwen and I have waited many years, my friend. Another week will make little difference." His voice was steady, but his eyes told Legolas a different story.

"I will speak to him," Faramir said, perhaps seeing the yearning in Aragorn's eyes.

* * *

Faramir took his dinner with Eomer that night. He was not sure why he sought out the man of Rohan, except that they shared a common loss, father and uncle. They shared also the desire to sit quietly and forget, for a time, their new responsibilities.

After the meal they sat quietly by the open fire and Eowyn joined them, her hair shining deep gold in the firelight. She did not interrupt their silence, and the three watched the flames together late into the night.

Faramir left them after midnight, and took to Boromir's rooms. The chill air in the corridors shook him from his reverie, and by the time he reached his brother's rooms he felt more awake. He knocked softly in case Boromir was sleeping, but seeing candlelight shining beneath the door he entered.

He could see Boromir, dark against the night sky on the high balcony. Faramir had always known it might come to this, yet at the time his concern had been focused on his father's objections.

Though he did not turn, Boromir must have heard him enter. "Do you ask this of me, Faramir? To give up all my life was to be?"

Faramir came out on the balcony and stood beside him, looking down at the circles of the city as they had been wont to do in younger days. Out of the corner of his eye he examined Boromir's shadowed face, but could not read what was on his thoughts.

In his own mind, it was so clear. "Surely it is for all the more noble a duty," he said. "What might two mighty rulers could achieve together to unite the Kingdom!"

The people loved their Captain-general, but Aragorn had raised the banner of the King on the field of Pelennor, had brought with him an army to save the city. If Boromir chose to oppose Aragorn's claim the rift between them could tear Gondor apart.

"To serve as Steward beneath a King... it is not what I have been trained for."

"What is it you fear, brother? That your will would be subsumed under a rule you could not honour. I say to you that never was a man as just or true as Aragorn."

Boromir watched him long, and Faramir wondered whether his brother perceived the change in himself since they had last stood together on this balcony and looked East, the change that had come with the fall of the shadow and the prospect of peace.

"Answer me something," Boromir asked, and his grey eyes seemed almost black as he looked out into the night. "You travelled some time with the halflings... Did you... so easily turn away from that which they carried? Did not your thoughts turn to it at night, wondering if it was the one way to save all we hold dear?"

Faramir did not answer at once. "None who encountered it remained untested," he said at last, thinking back to the forests of Amon Hen, "but its shadow did not weigh on me after it passed out of my sight."

Boromir's head dropped slightly. "Only the faintest trace of the thing passed me by," he said, his voice filled with a self-loathing that pained Faramir to hear. "The glimmer of a hope that I might live to see it, yet even now I recall it haunting my dreams."

"You were ill, fevered." Faramir noticed that sweat had sprung up on Boromir's brow. "Even now you are sick, come inside."

He took Boromir's arm but his brother did not allow himself to be drawn in. "Nay, Faramir. I was ill but had I not been so.. Had I been free to pursue that which I knew was near..." He searched his brother's face. "You do not understand. You cannot."

"Do not blame yourself for wanting the best for our people. Had I not been sure our success did not lie in war I may too have been tested more sorely."

The line of Boromir's mouth showed he did not believe it. "And Aragorn?"

"I do not know," Faramir said.

After a time Boromir finally stood up with resolution, taking his weight from the balcony rail. He seemed more himself once more. "My mind is made up," he said sternly, "But it all depends on you, brother."

"How so?"

There was a steely glint in Boromir's eyes and Faramir braced himself for the decision, still unsure of his brother's mind.

"If you promise... that you will share the burdensome paperwork I will concede and let your ragged King take up his throne."

Faramir grinned, a great weight falling from him. Boromir was a proud man and it had not been easily done, but he was good humoured too, and a decision once made was kept.

"I will share your paperwork," he agreed. He gripped his brother's forearm with steady fingers as the other man grimaced good-naturedly at the thought of the dry work. "You never had a head for letters."

"I would not do this for any other, Faramir," Boromir said, suddenly serious again. "Let my trust in your judgement prove right."

Boromir proffered not only his status, Faramir knew, but the lives and hopes of all in Gondor. Had Faramir had less trust in Aragorn he might have wavered at this reminder, but he had no doubts and so turned to look out over the city, the wind in his hair.

"It is you for whom I grow concerned," Faramir said after a moment, with the hint of a smile. "What shall you do with yourself now that the enemy no longer threatens?"

"While you sit buried in correspondence from complaining farmers whose crops have burned, I shall make it my task to wipe the remainder of the enemy from our lands." Boromir's hand brushed upon his sword hilt, as though eager to begin at once. "Do not forget Minas Ithil. Surely the restoration of the two towers would appeal to your romantic ideals?"

"It would," he admitted with a smile, "and perhaps once I have rested awhile I might join you in an adventure or two."

"Nay, you must stay here and guard the back of your fabled King from scheming councillors. I shall not envy you that task, for they are as deadly as any goblin and one cannot simply go at them with a blade."

"I hope to one day return to Ithilien," Faramir said, more seriously. He looked to the South. "Perhaps," he said, "after the coming of Aragorn's bride."

"And tell me," Boromir said after a time, "Where is your own Elven bride? Surely some fair pointy-eared lass has attached herself to you?"

Faramir made a face, but he was more amused than annoyed by Boromir's provocation. He wondered how long that patience would last now that they were reunited, and smiled considering it.

"You may have wedded twenty times since I departed," he returned. "You should take care, a Steward of Gondor may appeal even more than a Captain-general."

Boromir snorted. "My sword and shield are all the company I require at present. Yet I did chance upon Eowyn of Rohan on my way here. A fitting wife she would make for a Steward. Slayer of the Nazgul King!"

Faramir had tensed at the name. He eyed his brother out of the corner of his eye, but Boromir gave no sign that he might be provoking a response.

"She is a lady high and valiant," he said softly and his eyes strayed to the burn on his forearms. The shape of the horse was still distinguishable there.

Boromir reached out to touch the brand. "Who did this?" he asked, he brow creased. "There is much more to your tale, brother, than you have told thus far."

He said nothing, remembering the smell of burning, but then Eowyn's cooling touch. The fear of fire no longer held him. It had passed with the destruction of the ring, like so much else.

Eowyn's fears may have passed also, but her Uncle had been lost on the field of Pelenor, and Aragorn was to wed another.

"It was necessary," he said, recalling the question.

He shifted his hands out of sight, and curled his fingers around the small white chess piece he still carried with him, the white lady.


	42. Ithilien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who read or left comments throughout the many years of writing this tale (and on the various sites it was distributed). A special thanks to Sorry_im_trash who amazingly left a review on every chapter as they were posted on AO3 ^_^ Thank you!
> 
> If looking for something else to read, you might enjoy 'East of the Moon': Eowyn, Faramir and Legolas journey to Rhun to save Eomer, King of Rohan from a mysterious threat. A four chapter post-rotk adventure. <http://archiveofourown.org/works/5934769/chapters/13648069>

Golden heads rested together as the moment for departure arrived. The wind whipped around the small party as they huddled together at the sixth gate, and Faramir saw Eowyn shiver as she pulled away from her brother's embrace.

Eomer's men were leading their horses from the stables in a long line down the paved street before them. There was longing in the lady's eyes as she watched them.

"Do not fear, sister, we shall return before the leaves turn brown." Eomer glanced westward, wither the the riders were bound, and in doing betrayed his urgency to be begin the task at hand. "Are you sure you not ride with us Master Hobbit?" he asked, reaching up to secure his saddle with a small smile.

Pippin shook his head firmly. "I have had enough of riding, and the healers will no more let me out of their sight than your lady sister."

The face of the kindly Warden rose in Faramir's thoughts. He unconsciously drew a breath, and the familiar dull ache at own his side seemed a poor exchange for those who had suffered to bring them to this peaceful day. Healing would not be a simple matter of weeks, and much of the kingdom would never be fully healed. There was, however, much to be thankful for.

He gave the curly haired Hobbit a fond glance. "Do not fear, Eomer, we shall send them on when all Gondor's harvest is depleted and our stores empty, so that they can take advantage of Rohan's hospitality."

"Pray do not! I have heard tell of their appetites and I do not know if Rohan has sufficient defences."

Eomer grasped Faramir's forearm in farewell and Faramir could feel the other man's silent amusement as he was drawn into an embrace.

While Pippin shook his head at the jesting and made a face at Eowyn, Eomer kept a firm hold on Faramir's arm. He felt his own gaze drawn to the rider's bright eyes.

"I know your duties are many now," Eomer said beneath his breath, "and it will be long before we can sit before a fire together again in comfort, but I will look to that time with hope."

"As will I, my friend."

He would feel the horselord's departure as keenly as any in the city, for in Eomer he had found an unexpected companion. With a nature more eager and less patient than his own, the man's company had been a refreshing change from the sometimes staid society in the citadel.

"My sister has few friends in this stone city of yours, but in my absence I could not entrust her happiness to one more worthy."

Eomer loosened his grip, aware of Eowyn's querying look, but Faramir silently acknowledged the words before letting his own hand fall, the honour of the sentiment not escaping him.

His gaze strayed to Eowyn, wondering not for the first time, whether her brother's wishes were in any small way mirrored by her own. He could not say, and knew only that she must be sorrowful at this separation, for all that she now stood tall, raising a hand in farewell.

The Rohirrim would proceed now down to the city gates where a formal farewell would take place. It had seemed fitting that their first farewell was between only friends.

In the failing light Faramir and Pippin stood with Eowyn and watched the trail depart the city, turning west.

"The days shall be long without him."

The wind blew chill as they turned their steps towards the now damaged white tower.

"Gandalf promised me," Pippin said, wrapping his hands around his chest, "that with the passing of the shadow would come the end of this bitter cold."

"The Shire may have fine weather all year around, but the nights in Minas Tirith are not so warm as they were."

Pippin sniffed at his words, the prospect of further cold weather clearly not pleasing him.

"But winter too can be beautiful. Recall, if you can through all that has happened since, the first days of Winter in Lothlorien."

"I can remember," Pippin said, and seemed to forget his chill for a moment.

Eowyn looked to them both, always interested to hear more of their journey, and Faramir suddenly remembered the gift he had purposefully brought forth for the lady.

The gardens of the Houses were to their left. "Let us pause here a moment," he said, and drew forth the bundle of cloth he had carried.

Some kind of childish reverence woke as the midnight cloth slipped between his fingers. Hidden away for long years, the starry mantle had not dimmed in beauty, nor had its memories of first grief faded with time.

Eowyn received the cloak with equal reverence, her own fingers brushing lightly against the cloth as he wrapped it about her.

"So valuable a gift should not be given lightly," she breathed as he spoke of it being wrought for his mother."

"Not lightly," he returned, and as she pulled the cloak about her and turned to face the West she seemed to him a queen of fairer days.

"I shall take leave of you here,"Pippin said quietly, a somewhat knowing look in his eyes. "It's about time for me to seek out Merry. Until the wedding!"

They did not speak for a time, standing quietly together where Pippin had left them. Faramir felt that Aragorn and Arwen's wedding had risen between them, casting each into their own thoughts. He wondered whether sadness or bitterness held Eowyn's reflections now, and not for the first time wished he could offer comfort.

"Eowyn," he began at last.

She looked up and it was with a small ache that he failed to meet her gaze, unsure how to lighten the shadow their King had left upon her heart.

"Eowyn it pains me to think you unhappy. Beyond all else I would see you joyful and loved."

When she said nothing, he reluctantly met her eyes. They were bright yet there seemed to be tears behind them, though she did not weep.

Another breath and he pushed onwards, something of bitterness now touching his words. "What a cursed fate that the love of one so valiant and fair could not be returned."

Her mouth opened and he saw sudden hurt in her face and wounded pride, perhaps in it being stated so plainly. She rose to her feet and moved over to the balcony, turning her back on him.

The injuries that yet pained him were little to witnessing her grief, and he lingered a little where he stood, wondering if he had supposed too much of their friendship to speak in this way, but feeling too that saying nothing would have been cold and unfeeling. With faltering steps he came to stand beside her.

"I had wished," she spoke at last, "to be loved by another. When the Lord Aragorn first came to Edoras bringing the hope that the house of Eorl..." she broke off, the reminder of her Uncle perhaps too vivid, "and all that has happened since then... I had believed..."

Without thinking he moved to touch her hand, but she pulled away as though burned. His own heart sank further.

"Aragorn's attachment for Arwen," he said softly when he could speak, as though his tone might soothe the hurt, "has grown out of an exiled past, and the passing of years uncounted among the Elves."

Slowly he realised she was looking at him, eyes wide. When she spoke her voice seemed changed.

"I have heard it said in Gondor," she begun slowly, suddenly placing her arm within his and drawing him towards the furthest, highest balcony, "that the lord Faramir can read the hearts of men, and see what secrets are written in their thoughts..."

He was watching her carefully now as they walked, their steps seemed lighter than before, and they did not feel the cold. Her eyes were bright but not with tears, the corner of her lips curving up into the beginnings of a smile.

"But now I see," she continued, "that he is quite lost when it comes to women."

She reached up and brushed her hand along his cheek, still smiling. The light dancing in her eyes brought a confused smile to his own lips, and everything took a new colour. The stars of her mantle were mirrored in the new night sky.

"I thought I would lose everything," he said when they came to the balcony and looked down upon the battle scorched earth, thinking for the first time that he truly understood her, "but it appears I have gained something more wondrous without seeing it."

His gaze moved further a field to where the deep ocean seemed to sparkle in his eyes. Something leapt within and on an impulse he grasped her hand once more, searching her face earnestly for the truth. "You truly want this?"

It was a long moment before she looked back at him, for the distant horizon where Ithilien stood north of the river seemed to hold her. "We stood together to face the shadow," she said, "When you next stand by my side I would have it be as my husband."

He embraced her then, holding her tight and fearing the darkness no more, thanking all the graces that had brought them out of the darkness to this happy end.

* * *

Eowyn lightly tapped on the door, too lightly perhaps, for there was no response from within. The Houses were one of the only places she felt at home in the great stone city, and within the last weeks she thought she had seen the same restlessness in Faramir as was in her own heart.

Longing to leave the stone city and ride into the hills. Much must be done before that could happen, and she was not patient.

She pushed the door open slowly, wondering if perhaps she might again find her betrothed, how strange to think that word, asleep while working.

She smiled seeing the dark head bent over in concentration. The room was in full sun, and she saw that he was in his shirtsleeves, cloak folded over the chair.

She glanced around to see that they were alone. "I can think of better ways to spend the afternoon."

Even as she spoke, she knew her mistake.

The head turned and she half opened her mouth, not knowing what to say as she beheld the lord Boromir.

There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and his amusement was so infectious that she gave it up and laughed along with him.

He stood with some small difficulty and ushered her into the room, moving a pile of papers from the spare chair onto the bed.

"You look so alike," she managed at last, still feeling her cheeks heated.

He flexed his hands, looking with displeasure at his arms. "You would not have said so last fall. I will have none of bows and knives. The broadsword was my weapon of choice, and to even lift it now is a challenge. But my full strength shall return, and you shall have no excuse for mistaking us."

"I did not think to find you here... I thought you had taken up your own chambers."

"That I have, but I have discovered the key to avoiding the councillors and questioners is to keep on the move."

"You are in hiding?"

He swept his hand dramatically into the pile of papers, letting them float to the floor.

"Would you not were you in my place? I have no patience for this."

"But surely during your Captaincy accounts were a matter of course?"

"Supply orders and accounts of battles are are a far flung thing from damage reports and requests for drain maintenance."

She took up the pile, sifting through it. "The key to this is to employ someone you trust to sift through and deal with the less important correspondence for you."

He was quiet, and she looked up to find grey eyes upon her somewhat pleadingly.

"I am not the one to solve your administrative burden! Faramir is already snowed under as it is." She took a breath, realising she was talking to this man she had hardly exchanged ten words with as though he were her own brother. As she looked over the papers she was slowly realising that she had likely exchanged the management of Edoras' administration for a more onerous task in Ithilien.

He was grinning, and she raised her eyebrows in question.

"I am happy to see you will take a firm hand with my brother, and will tell him firmly when he has taken too much upon himself."

"As far as I can see you both need to be taken in hand and made to rest before you do yourselves more damage." She wondered if she had gone too far, but the other man only continued to smile.

"Faramir mentioned you were considering hanging up the sword in return for a healer's robe?"

"After our stay here I am interested to learn more, but that was not quite my words. While the peace lasts we shall have no need for swords." She thought she saw a shadow pass over his features. "Should another darkness threaten I shall be as willing as any to take up my sword."

"And how about now?"

"Now?"

"Aye, I am tired of trawling through reams of correspondence. Let me try my sword arm against that of the slayer of the Witch King."

She laughed, sensing no mockery in his words, and delighted that he should think of her thus. "That arm is not yet fully healed, but you may attempt to defeat the other." She glanced down at her skirts, "I am not sure I am dressed for this."

The alley behind the Houses drew Faramir away from the bustle of the street and into the quiet of a courtyard. His conference with Mithrandir had been brief and he had been saddened to hear that his old friend planned to stay no longer in the city than the Hobbits.

He paused to rest a moment, setting his armful of papers upon a stone corner marker, and taking several breaths of the fresh morning air.

Looking up at the sound of laughter, he wondered whether he had ever truly woken from his injuries, so strange the sight that met his eyes. Two figures, one crouching, one leaning against the curved stone wall raised their arms in welcome.

Even at the distance, the golden hair of the second left him in no doubt as to their identities. "Eowyn!"

"Do not fear, brother," Boromir stumbled to his feet as he approached and slapped a sweat-dampened hand upon his good shoulder, we are both already too injured to do any damage. He shook the narrow blade in his brother's direction. "Who would call this a sword?"

"I would, it is my sword." Faramir made a snatch for the blade, but his brother twisted it away.

Eowyn smiled and he felt his own face light up to see her flushed cheeks and the competitive look in her eyes.

Suddenly recognising the tunic Eowyn had donned, he followed it down to find her feet looking unusually large. "I see my spare clothes are being put to good use also."

"I did not think you would mind."

"Take care, she shall be attending your councils and commanding your labourers soon enough."

"And welcome to them, as I am already attending in your stead." Faramir shook his head.

"You work too hard, brother. But you must not blame me for taking advantage of you both while you yet remain in the city. Too soon you shall scarper to Ithilien and leave me with all the drudgery of court." Boromir feigned deep disheartenment at the thought.

"True enough."Faramir moved forward with a hand outstretched to comfort his brother, but at the last moment stepped smartly on his foot and twisted the blade from his surprised fingers. "But first give me the chance to better your efforts!"

Eowyn narrowed eyes full of laughter and raised her sword.

* * *

"I shall not complain if Gimli comes to Emyn Arnen for a time." Even as Faramir shouted the words over the wind it threw them back at him, whipping his hair into his eyes. He trusted the Elf had heard, but tugged on his horse's reigns, urging the animal to move a little faster up the slope.

Legolas was quite a way ahead, peering back over the landscape and paying no attention to the blustery day.

"You can see Minas Tirith clearly from here," the Elf said as Faramir reached him, breathing hard. He had had far too many hearty meals since their return to Gondor, and felt out of shape compared to his days as Captain in Ithilien.

"I shall not miss it," Legolas continued, "marble and stone. I look forward to making our home here amid the trees."

"You may be able to see the city," Faramir said between breaths, "but I can only see a white shape on the horizon. I do envy your eyesight. But you have changed the subject."

Nothing had pleased Faramir more than the news that Legolas had decided to establish a home for his kin alongside theirs in Ithilien. He had seen a twinkle in Aragorn's eye at the news also, and would not be surprised if the new King slipped off to his Eastern outpost for some time with his friends away from the pressures of council. After Legolas and Gimli's travels together to Fangorn and Helm's deep, the Dwarf had expressed an intent to 'ensure the foundations of Legolas' colony were to the standards of a Dwarf.'

"If the Dwarf wishes to come and help establish the colony I cannot stop him," Legolas said with a sour expression, but there was humour behind his words. "I cannot promise, however, that he will not be outnumbered by Elves, and if he insults them as he does me he will find his beard in a twist faster than he can say Dwarrowdelf."

"You are beginning to sound like him," Faramir said, because he knew it would annoy the Elf.

"Your brother," Legolas began in cheerful retaliation, "has been telling me interesting stories about when you learned to shoot a bow..."

"All lies," Faramir returned too quickly, then laughed before he had a chance to be convincing. "I shall have to speak to him - what respect can I command if he continues to tell anecdotes at my expense?"

Legolas smiled, "Never fear, here shall be our home and no Dwarves or elder brothers shall disturb our peace."

Faramir smiled too, knowing the falsity of the sentiment. "I am happy you agreed to come to Ithilien, my friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) If you made it this far, I'd love to hear if you enjoyed the ending.


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